Here Be Monsters II: Psalm of the Wolf
by Dzeytoun
Summary: In the summer after Harry's fifth year, Remus Lupin finds that the wolf is not the only monster within. Continuation of HBM I: Wizards Lament. OOTP Spoilers.
1. Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by JK Rowling

A/N: Well, here we go.  This is, of course, a continuation of the story begun in Here Be Monsters I: Wizard's Lament.  For persons new to this fic, it is absolutely essential that you read HBM I before starting on HBM II.  Otherwise you will be totally lost.

Temporally, this picks up on 5 July, 1996, more or less where HBM I left off (there are a few hours overlap).  As I have stated in response to some questions about Albus in HBM I, it is crucial to remember that this fic, although having many chapters, occupies a very condensed timeline thus far.  When HBM II opens, Sirius has only been dead eleven days.  This is very important to understanding Albus in HBM I, it is absolutely essential to understanding Remus in HBM II.

I have begun a Yahoo group dedicated to the discussion of all my fics and the universe in which they are set.  The address is in my profile, and I encourage everyone to join us there for ongoing conversation, polls, and goodies such as timelines and chapter docs.

HERE BE MONSTERS II: PSALM OF THE WOLF

Chapter One: Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary

Friday 5 July, 1996

_08 34 GMT_

My gums hurt.

That in and of itself would probably not be remarkable for most people, but when you are a werewolf you learn to pay attention to certain things.  For instance, aching in your gums that turns into burning pain in the incisor region, tenderness and stabbing pain in your fingertips and around your fingernails, and cramping discomfort in your lower back as if the vertebrae are screaming in protest at being held in a vertical position; all signs of an incipient transformation.

I want to believe that this is all just aftereffects of last week's full moon, which was a very, very bad episode. Sometimes the pain from a particularly intense episode will not fade before the next full moon rises.  I often suffer from debilitating pain for months at a stretch.  

It was a mistake to try and brew the wolfsbane potion myself.  I have never had much talent for potions, and that one is particularly complex.  It was only partially effective and I had to spend the night locked in a basement room that had a suspicious resemblance to a dungeon cell.  Knowing Sirius' family, it may well have been just that.  

But however much I want to believe this is just the lingering hurt of 29 June, I know that is a pile of animal waste (pick your favorite creature).  I know it as surely as the scents of cat hair and cheap hairspray tell me when I am at Arabella Figg's house, or the smells of cooking, laundry, and ozone (from frequent apparation) let me know that a house elf is in the vicinity.   

Or as surely as the odors of paper and ink and quills in all stages of decay tell me that I have entered a solicitor's office. With a soft sigh I walk down the carpeted hallway toward the waiting secretary.  She is observing me with the kind of look assistants to very important people develop – that look that hovers midway amongst arrogance, disdain, pity, boredom, and analytic scrutiny.  I have seen it many times on the faces of functionaries for the Committee for the Control of Magical Creatures, as well as the faces of prospective employers the moment they discover my lycanthropy.

People like Dolores Umbridge often claim that werewolves are liable to lose control at the slightest annoyance.  It suits their purposes to have people imagine they might get their throats ripped out over giving incorrect change or accidentally bumping someone at a busy floo point.  As silly as that is, it is true that sometimes, although rarely, incredible emotional stress can trigger an untimely episode.  For the past week I have been feeling like I might transform at any moment.

_Especially when I smelled THAT smell._

No.  No, it was my imagination, what I thought I smelled at Privet Drive.  It must have been!  I have not smelled it for two days.  It must have been my imagination.

Please, God, let it have been my imagination.

I am dreading this very badly, and the dread has settled into my bones.  Somehow reading Sirius' will _validates_ his death – announces it and places an irrevocable seal on my friend's demise.  Odd, I saw him fall through the veil with my own eyes, yet the thought of reading his will has me near tears.  I suppose it's because I am still trying to tell myself he is going to come back.  Even though I know better, I still expect my wonderful friend to walk back through that accursed veil, dusting himself off, cursing his bitch cousin, and demanding to know where Harry is and when we are going to eat.  I still tell myself that we are just holding all his possessions for him until he gets back, as if he's just taken a quick business trip to the Continent.  The thought of dividing his property is almost as painful as if we were discussing dismembering his physical form.

I reach the desk and stand uncomfortably, silently cursing whatever functionary demanded that Arthur be early at the ministry today for an all morning meeting.  With everyone else occupied on one duty or another, that left delivering the will to me.  I halfway suspect this development was deliberate, judging by the half-annoyed, half-smug tone Tonks used this morning when she told me I would just _have_ to leave Privet Drive for a few hours.

The firm of Graves, Garman, and Reed is one of the most trusted solicitors' establishments in Wizarding Britain – at least so far as the Order is concerned.  Two of the senior partners, Caractacus Garman and Hermes Reed, actually attended Hogwarts with Albus in the time of the muggle queen, Victoria.  Although not members of the Order as such, Albus long ago came to trust their discretion and rectitude.  Thus it is that I have come, bearing the thick envelope containing Sirius' will and final statements.

The secretary looks at me in her bored way and inquires as to my name.

"Remus Lupin," I say softly, "to see Mr. Hermes Reed."

"_Which_ Mr. Hermes Reed," she answers in an arch tone, "we have three here at the firm."

"He is here to see me, Elizabeth."  The speaker has emerged from a nearby doorway as we were talking and walks toward us rapidly with small, delicate steps.  He is almost exactly my age, but looks ten years younger – in part because I look older than I am and in part because he has made judicious use of cosmetics.

I suppress a groan.  This is another reason I did not want to be the one taking care of this errand.

"Oh, Mr. Reed the Third."  Elizabeth ticks something off on her desk with an efficient motion.  "Will you be using one of the conference rooms, Mr. Reed?"

"No, Elizabeth," he says in his high voice, "we will use my office.  This way Remus."  He smiles at me and beckons me forward.  "I bet you didn't expect me to be handling this situation."

"No, I wasn't.  I think we... I mean Albus..."

"You thought Grandfather would do it?  Don't worry, he will give final approval.  I am just going to do the actual work – unless of course you object?"

"Oh... I suppose not."

"Good!"  He smiles.  Hermes has a brilliant smile.  He always did.  I concentrate on his smile and try to ignore the almost overwhelming scent of ... is that lilacs? ... coming from him.  

We step into his office.  It is bright, cheerful, and excruciatingly neat, not at all what you would expect a solicitor's office to look like.  Then again, Hermes isn't what you would expect a solicitor to look like, either.  His long hair, delicate features, and well-manicured nails are not exactly stereotypical.  Neither are his robes.  I really did not know you could buy men's robes with floral patterns on the border.

He motions me towards a chair and moves around his desk with his flowing stride.  I see that he still collects potion phials.  The whole back of the room behind him is outfitted with shelves laden with the containers in all materials, shapes, and sizes.

Hermes notices that I have seen his collection and smiles again.  "Yes, I still like those things.  Odd, how we invest so much in our little trinkets isn't it?"

His smile does not falter, and his eyes are clear, but did his tone sharpen, just slightly?  My mouth is dry and my head pounding and I wish I was done with this and out of here.

I know how much Hermes' collection means to him – I know all too well.  Suddenly a splinter of pain comes from my back and I grimace involuntarily.

Hermes frowns, his expression alarmed.  "Is something wrong, Remus?"

"No, Hermes," I sigh, squirming in the chair, "it's just my back.  I haven't recovered..." I falter.  He knows about my lycanthropy from the newspapers, I assume, but still...

To my surprise his face looks genuinely concerned.  Walking over to a closet he pulls out a large, lace-laden pillow and brings it to me.  "Here you are.  It must be very bad – during the full moon I mean."

I look up at him.  His expression holds no mockery.  Silently he places the pillow between my back and the chair, fluffing it fussily.  Then he places his soft hands on my shoulders and gently helps me lean back.

"Thank you, Hermes.  That's much better."

He remains standing behind me, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.  "Poor Remus," he finally says, almost whispering, "I don't suppose life has been very good to you these past seventeen years."  

Hermes removes his hands.  But instead of returning to his desk he walks over to the office's window and stares out.  I can tell that many thoughts are flashing through his mind, but I cannot begin to read them.

Spontaneously I ask, "Has life been good to you, Hermes?"

"No," he says softly.

I can well believe that.  Hermes is, well, a fag, and the wizarding world isn't any kinder to men of his kind than the muggle world is.  Oh, it's true that you don't often find religious objections to homosexuality among wizards – religion being a very eclectic practice in our world, at least in Europe – but many wizarding families, and not just the purebloods, hold it as a sacred duty that every wizard and witch marry and have children to perpetuate magical humanity.  Hermes and his ilk don't fit into that equation.

He turns from the window and goes back to the desk, looking across at me with a curious expression.  "Do you think he would have minded that I am handling his will?"  He picks up a letter opener and slits open the envelope.

"Why would he?"  I know what Hermes is getting at but I really don't want to think of it.

"Well, he _did_ put me in the Hospital Wing when we were third years."

"I had forgotten about that."  I really had.  Hermes for some mad reason made a pass at Sirius when we were third years.  He ended up in the infirmary with a broken nose and a sprained wrist.

"It was far from the worst beating I ever got," he says matter of factly, up-ending the envelope and letting its contents fall onto his desk.

That is only the truth.  "Herpes" as he had been nicknamed by one of the muggle-born students, tended to get the Hell beaten out of him about once a fortnight.  Almost always it was because he had made a pass at the wrong person.

I used to be incredulous at how he kept at it, time and time again.  Of course, that was before I lost James and Sirius and Lily and even Peter.  That was before I learned what it was like to be alone, not just despised and reviled, but _alone_.

Now I think I understand perfectly why Hermes kept leaving the hospital wing and offering himself to the fists of his outraged schoolmates.  It was because the fists hurt less than the aching emptiness inside.

"You thought I meant the other time," Hermes says evenly as he sorts out the papers and envelopes on his desk, his hands briskly arranging them in neat stacks by size, "the night of the Quidditch Ball."

"Yes," I reply, "I did."  When we were sixth years the First War was at its height and Hogwarts had decreed a Quidditch Ball to celebrate the end of the quidditch season and attempt to relieve tension.  Sirius and James had come up with a prank to play on Hermes involving a forged letter of invitation from a certain Hufflepuff with a very high temper.  Unfortunately the Hufflepuff proved to have a much higher temper than they expected and Hermes had ended up hurt rather badly.  To make matters worse his phial collection had been smashed – and it was only then that we, or I at least, learned that many of the pieces had been given to him by his dead grandmother.  Hermes had been carried away to the Hospital Wing, wailing into his hands. 

And I, useless Moony, had as usual stood by and done nothing.  I remember now standing in McGonagall's office uncomfortably polishing my prefect's badge as Professor Flitwick (Hermes was a Ravenclaw) demanded to know what McGonagall intended to do about James and Sirius' behavior.  They had been clever with their forgery, but not clever enough to evade Flitwick's graphology charms.  It was the only time in my life I have ever seen gentle Flitwick well and truly enraged.  Even Minerva was taken aback by the force of his wrath.  Sirius and James ended up cleaning all of Ravenclaw Tower from top to bottom while reciting school rules at the top of their lungs (like I said, Flitwick was _really_ angry).  For my part I was suspended as prefect for two weeks while I picked up every recoverable shard of glass with tweezers, delivering the slivers to Professors Flitwick and McGonagall who, working together, were able to restore much, but not all, of Hermes' collection.

"Well, that was a long time ago," Hermes observes, folding his hands neatly in front of him, "but I will admit that I still have hard feelings about that."  His voice is even and matter of fact.

"I don't blame you. I..." I swallow hard, "I suppose you understand the Ministry will not look kindly on you for this.  Lot's of people there aren't great friends of Dumbledore."

"You are speaking of damage to the firm?"

"No, to you personally."

"I know.  But it is my job."  He starts to flip through the papers with prices, efficient motions.

"Oh.  Are they making you do this?"  It seems cruel, but I suppose solicitors are not supposed to have – what is the phrase I heard on muggle telly – "passion or prejudice."

"No.  I volunteered."  He looks across at me.  "In fact, I insisted."

"Why?"  I shift in the chair, trying to get comfortable.  It isn't possible.  "I didn't think you liked Sirius."

"I didn't."  He sighs.  "I did not like Sirius or James or even Lily."

"What about Peter?" I can't resist.

"I rarely noticed him."

"Oh."  Swallowing hard, I look him in the eye.  "Then why?"

"Because of this." He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out something.  It takes me a moment to recognize it as a copy of _The Quibbler_ – the edition that contains Harry's interview.

"Harry's interview?"

"Yes.  He must be a most extraordinary boy."

"He is."  I smile broadly.

"A most extraordinary boy," he repeats, "and one who was all alone."  His voice is soft and his eyes are suddenly filled with sadness.  "So alone with all the world against him.  Imagine, standing his ground after all _The Prophet _had said."  He lets the paper drop.  "Poor child.  I thought about him then, when the article came out. By himself with everyone spitting at him, even the Ministry.  He must have felt so helpless.  And now Albus says Sirius was his godfather, and he is even more alone than before."  Hermes continues to stare directly into my eyes, his own gaze heavy.  "Alone.  Alone at Hogwarts with the whole world reviling you.  I know what that is like."

Sitting there, my gums aching and spasms gripping my back, I suddenly feel a surge of affection for this prissy, dandified, effeminate little man.  Sometimes you find light in the oddest of places.  I just found it in a lonely middle-aged fag who paused to fish out a pillow for a werewolf, and who is going to defy the Ministry for a boy he has never met, all because his large heart has room for compassion as well as sadness and anger and bitterness.

And I feel I stab of shame for myself.  Yes, I know a sliver of contempt for the prefect who did nothing to stop his friends from playing a cruel joke on sad, silly, harmless Hermes Reed.

"Hermes, I..." 

"Yes, Remus?"  His smile is friendly.  I do not understand how it can be so friendly, in fact.

"I'm sorry."  I don't feel better.  Somehow I think I'm supposed to, but I don't.

"Thank you, Remus."  He looks over the papers quickly.  "I will examine these and get to my grandfather.  He will contact Professor Dumbledore."

"Thank you," I say, rising to leave.  Hermes, however, holds up a hand and motions for me to be seated once again.

"Remus, do you know why I did not like Lily much?"

"No."  That _was_ odd.  Most people adored Lily.

"Because she wasn't very smart."

"Pardon?"

He cocks his head and looks at me.  "Lily chose James."

"Yes."  What's the point?

"She might have chosen you."

I feel my mouth drop open.

"You always were the best of the four, Remus."

I don't know what to say.  My jaw works but no sound comes forth.

"Of course," he pauses thoughtfully and taps his lower lip with the end of his quill, "Sirius _did _have the best arse."

For a moment I am stunned into silence.  And then the laughter comes.  It begins somewhere in my lower belly and wells upward, making my torso and shoulders shake.  I don't know what's funniest, the plainspoken tone of Hermes, the thought of him staring at Sirius' behind all those years in Hogwarts, or the thought of the look on Sirius' face if he could have heard that comment. For the first time since my friend's death, I laugh.

Hermes joins me, his laugh high and melodic.  Lacing his fingers together he leans forward across his desk and says conspiratorially, "I confess though, that I always used to wonder about James' thigh muscles.  Think what kind of development you must get from all that Seeker training.  Gripping the broomstick and all."

I laugh, I chuckle, I chortle, I guffaw.  Tears of mirth and memory roll down my face.  Oh, to see James' reaction to that!  Even better to hear Lily's!  She probably would have given Hermes a detailed report while James stood to one side dying of chagrin.

After several minutes of shared laughter we rise and shake hands.  I feel better than I have in days.  It is amazing where we can find light.  It is also amazing where we can find healing.

Friday 5 July 1996

_18 01 GMT_

After a busy afternoon of errands for the Order – errands I suspect have been deliberately arranged to force me away from Privet Drive in a well-meaning attempt to help my mental balance - I apparate back to Arabella Figg's.  Finding a small stack of mail waiting, I stick it into my bag and walk to Four Privet Drive.

And my good mood evaporates immediately.  For a moment I had been able to forget about Harry and his suffering.  Now, though, I am forcibly reminded by the smells of sour, acidic vomit mixed with the salty reek of an unwashed adolescent male body and the hot, thin vapors of fever.  The whole of Number Four Privet Drive is cloaked in the miasma of his sickness.  It wrenches me from gut to heart every time I step through the door, as I have often done lately.  Not because of the odor itself, when you are like me you get used to smelling much worse things and keeping a straight face, all the time wondering how the people around you go through life with such ineffective noses.  What hurts me is the overwhelming pity and fear that flood through my body when I catch the scent of Harry's suffering.  It hurts even worse when I remember how he used to smell, a vibrant combination of soap, athletic musk, and the dust of Hogwarts, all overlain by an incredible sweetness so appropriate to his nature.

As I step into the Dursley residence the pain in my fingertips becomes so great I can barely grasp the doorknob, so badly do canine claws wish to erupt from my flesh.  The sight of Petunia does not help matters, and I have to clench me teeth against the burning in my gums.  But from long practice I manage a calm smile, even though I don't trust myself to say anything.

Petunia stands in the doorway of the kitchen, a bitter look on her face.  "They're upstairs," she says in the same tone she would use to announce a roach infestation.

I nod silently and start up the stairs.  

"Could you tell that creature..."

I look at her calmly, but something in my eyes (perhaps the irises are shifting from amber to yellow?) causes her to stop.  I assume by "creature" she meant Dobby.  Insulting as that is, if I thought she was referring to Harry, I'm not sure I could keep my fragile calm.

"Vernon and Dudley have gone to visit Vernon's sister," Petunia says, completely switching topics.  "I was thinking of joining them tomorrow."

"That might be best," I allow.  I turn to ascend the steps.

"If the boy is still sick, I could..." she breaks off again as I turn to look at her, mildly surprised.  She reddens slightly.  After a few seconds of silence, she nods brusquely and retreats into the kitchen.

I don't bother wondering what she was trying to say as I climb the stairs.  Not so long ago I would have been delighted by such a show of concern, albeit mild, on Petunia's part.  Now I am too tired and depressed to give a damn.

_At least I don't detect THAT smell_.  I had hoped I wouldn't.  I had prayed to whoever might be listening that I wouldn't.

Maybe I imagined it.  Yes, I _must_ have imagined it.

I reach the top of the steps to find Dobby standing in front of Harry's door, his arms filled with sodden bedclothes that reek of vomit.  His face is disfigured by an expression of such overwrought sorrow that most people would have found it funny.

Most people would.  But I, as I am reminded every day of my life, am not most people.

"Professor Loopy!"  Dobby bounces up and down excitedly, artfully balancing the pile of soiled cloth in his arms.  "Dobby is so glad to see you!"

"I am happy to see you, too, Dobby."  I cannot help but smile at the excited elf.  Having him look after Harry was one of Dumbledore's better ideas.  "How is Harry?"

"Harry Potter is sleeping."  Dobby looks at the floor, suddenly and obviously uncomfortable.

"What is it, Dobby?" I ask, going down to one knee to be face-to-face with him.

"OH!" Dobby suddenly drops his burden and starts to pound his head with his hands.  "BAD Dobby!"

"Stop that!  Dobby, please!"  It makes me ashamed to admit, but my family was never wealthy enough to have an elf and I have always been a little uncomfortable around them.  But after what Dobby did to the MLE field team yesterday, I have been reminded of just how deserving he is of respect.

Dobby does stop, then looks at my with his large, worried eyes.  "Harry Potter..."

"Yes?"

"Harry Potter is a good wizard!"

I almost laugh.  _Of course Harry is a good wizard!_  Then I see that Dobby is wringing his hands and looking miserable.

"What is it, Dobby?  Has Harry done anything?"  I feel a surge of wild panic in my belly, but I thrust it back down savagely.  

"Harry Potter... Harry Potter has scared Dobby," the elf says softly.

"What?  Has he done anything to you?"  I can't imagine that Harry would hurt Dobby, of all beings!

"OH NO!" Dobby looks horrified.  "Harry Potter do something to Dobby?  Oh no!  BAD DOBBY!"  Before I can stop him, he turns and runs full tilt into the wall, banging his head savagely.  "BAD, BAD, BAD, DOBBY!!"

"Dobby, stop!" I hiss, afraid that he will bring Petunia charging up the stairs.  He ignores me and continues to bang his cranium against the wall.  "Dobby," I say desperately, "You'll wake Harry!"

He stops instantly. "Professor Loopy is right.  Dobby must not wake Harry Potter."

"No, Harry needs his rest." I smile despite myself.  The elf's devotion, overdone as it may be, is heartwarming.

"Yes, Harry Potter must rest."  He seems almost to be talking to himself.  "Harry Potter is very tired."

"Right.  Now, what is going on, Dobby?  How did Harry scare you?"

Dobby looks down, and I am afraid he is going to start crying.  "Harry Potter is a _good_ wizard!" he repeats.

"Of course he is, Dobby!  Please, what is the matter?"  I force myself to take deep breaths and try to stay calm.

"Harry Potter is saying... is saying _bad_ things."

"What do you mean, bad things?  Please, Dobby.  I need to know."  I instinctively want to reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, but not knowing what house-elf etiquette is, I keep them folded.

"Harry Potter is saying he... is saying he..."

"Is Harry saying he caused Sirius Black to die, Dobby?"  My throat clenches, but I try to keep looking him in the eye.

He nods, not looking up.  "Dobby told him he _must_ not say such things.  Dobby said it was filthy Kreacher who is to blame!  Dobby said it was _them_ who did it!"

"Who, Dobby?"  

"Dobby's..." he takes a deep breath, "Dobby's former masters."

_The Malfoys.  Ah yes._

"Harry Potter will not listen." Dobby continues.  "Please," he looks up, "Please, Professor Loopy must _make_ Harry Potter listen!  Harry Potter must understand he is a _good _wizard!"

"I will try, Dobby," I promise around the thick lump in my throat.

"Please," the house elf continues, reaching to take my hand, "Dobby has told him!  Dobby has said..." he stops, his eyes suddenly growing wide.  "BAD DOBBY!" he exclaims, leaping for the wall.

One good thing about being a werewolf is the accentuation of one's reflexes.  I snag Dobby easily.  "Careful, Dobby.  Now, what did you say to Harry?"

"Dobby..." the little elf seems to sigh and squares his shoulders, "Dobby will do anything for Harry Potter, Professor Loopy.  _Anything!_"

There is something more than a little scary about the fanaticism in Dobby's gentle green eyes.  I rise to my feet, but keep one of his hands in mine.  "I know that, Dobby.  So does Professor Dumbledore.  That is why you are here."

"Dobby wants Harry Potter to smile," he says softly, the look of determination still on his face.

"We know."

"Dobby said... Dobby told Harry Potter that he would bring him filthy Kreacher's skin, if Harry Potter wanted it."

Werewolves do not scare easily.  Being one of the more feared creatures in the magical world inspires a certain odd bravery.  But the look on the gentle elf's face is one of the most frightening things I have ever seen.  

"You did... that, did you?"  My mouth is so dry I almost croak the words out.

"Yes." He speaks with absolute matter-of-factness.  

He would, too.  I have heard it said that the loyalty of house-elves would put dogs to shame, but I had never appreciated that fact until this moment.  The look of utter and complete devotion on Dobby's countenance is terrifying.  I have absolutely no doubt that, should Harry decide he wants Draco Malfoy's head for a hat rack, Dobby would cheerfully pick up a meat cleaver and make for Malfoy Manor.  

"Well, we will..." I don't know what to say.  "We will talk about that later, Dobby.  I need to look in on Harry right now."

"Do not wake him, Professor Loopy," Dobby says sternly.  "Harry Potter must sleep!  He has to go to the solishitor's tonight!"

"I'll be very quiet."

"Is Professor Loopy going to the solishitor's?" Dobby asks.

"Yes." I blink my eyes rapidly against the tears.  "Yes, I am."

"What is Professor Loopy going to wear?" 

I feel an intense surge of embarrassment as he regards me.  Do I detect just the faintest hint of disapproval as he looks at my shabby robes?  Or have I seen that disapproval so often, from so many people, that I imagine it?

"I have brought some dress robes," I say at last.  Well, if you can call them dress robes anymore.  I have been using them ever since I graduated from Hogwarts.  I meant to buy some new ones the summer after my first year of teaching, but getting fired put a major crimp in those plans.

"Good!  Dobby will press them when he presses Harry Potter's!"

"Oh, that won't be necessary."  The thought of Dobby, used to the fine clothing of the Malfoys, ironing my decaying robes brings another surge of embarrassment.

"Oh, Dobby likes to press robes," the elf says earnestly.  "Where are they?"

"In my bag, downstairs."  I left it sitting in the entrance hall.

"Dobby will get them!  Remember, do not wake Harry Potter!"

"I'll..." Dobby vanishes in a flash, "Remember," I finish.

Gathering my nerves I slowly approach the door to Harry's room and walk in.  The smell of sickness is much worse here – so bad that even an ordinary human nose could easily detect it.  The room is dark but neat – perhaps Dobby's doing.

I walk quickly to the bed and look down.  Harry is huddled under some blankets, shivering.  He is drawn into a peculiar position, his knees flexed and legs together, his wrists clasped and drawn level with his head.  He whimpers softly as I approach and his shivers grow worse.

_I cannot be the father he needs_.  I am too weak, too helpless.  Even now my body aches with the pain of my accursed disease.  What sort of support could I be to this brave, hurting child?

No, Harry must not learn to love me.  I would betray him in my weakness, and the devastation would shatter him.  It would shatter me.

But now he is asleep.  He is asleep and we are alone, and it is safe for me to lower my guard.  He is asleep, and I can show the desperate tenderness that fills my heart and tears at my soul as I watch him suffer.

Sitting on the bed I reach out and slowly, softly stroke his messy hair.  His soft cries cease.  I let my fingers trail down the side of his neck, tickling gently. His lips twitch and he squirms slightly, his body trying to draw away from my teasing fingertips.  Bringing my other arm around I cradle him in a loose hug, letting my right hand caress his chest and shoulders through the blankets.

"Quiet, puppy," I whisper.  I slowly tease along the rim of his ear, grinning as he twitches and giggles softly.  My fingers stroke along his jaw and encounter... whiskers?  I grin even wider.  The puppy needs to shave.  Bending down, nearly overcome by the fierce tenderness I feel, I kiss his cheek.

And then I jerk back, stifling a cry of alarm.  It is there.  The smell is there, clinging to his cheek like some foul, alien scent polluting a rose.  It's mild, so subtle that even my nose barely caught it.  It is the sick-sweet smell of a dead thing that has been left to rot in the sun, the cloying miasma of rot.  It is the odor I wanted so desperately to believe I have imagined these last couple of days.

It is the smell of poison.  Harry has been poisoned, and I have no doubt as to how.__

_Clever, clever Wormtail_.  Oh yes, it was Peter.  He was always smarter than people thought, even if his intelligence was of a decidedly rodentine sort.  How often did Sirius and James take credit for intricate pranks that sprang from his vicious little mind?

_Yes, clever Peter.  _After all, it was simplicity itself.  Find a large black dog and place it under any one of a number of controlling spells.  Smear its claws with poison and then settle in to wait.  Wait until Harry was passing by, knowing full well that his sweet, wounded heart would compel him to pet a creature so similar to Padfoot.  Wait until he came close, then send the dog to attack him, once again through any number of spells or tactics.  Hell, Peter could easily have programmed the animal in advance.  It isn't that hard, given an intelligent creature like a dog.  

_How long did you wait in the shadows, Peter?  How long have you lurked about Privet Drive, your poison-bearing dog at your heels?  I can even guess what you named him.  Poisonfoot.  You always did have a taste for that kind of twisted mockery._

Of course he would not have had to wait THAT long.  No, just until I was not there, until Kingsley was busy, until Dung Fletcher was away.  Just until our clumsy little Auror was on duty.  Yes, our gentle Tonks, guaranteed to tangle her feet in the leash and fall down on the job – literally.

That isn't fair.  No it isn't fair at all.  I will be very, very ashamed of myself in due course.  But right now, the smell of poison in my nostrils, justice can go hang.

_Schedule for Friday night:  Attend will reading, have late dinner, tear Tonks' throat out, take shower, go to bed._

But now, now I will do what I always do in this kind of situation.

I will move my useless self to one side and call for help.

Silently moving away from the bed, I creep out of Harry's room and down the stairs.  I find Dobby in the basement, cheerfully folding laundry. 

"Dobby," I say in a calm but stern tone, "please fetch Madam Pomfrey!"

"Is Harry Potter worse?"  He practically hops from side to side at the thought.

"Yes, Dobby, he is worse.  Please tell Poppy to come at once."

"Dobby will go!  Will Professor Loopy watch Harry Potter?  Dobby will not be long!"

"Yes, yes.  Now just go, please!"  I don't mean to snap, but really I want Poppy _now_.

"Make sure Harry Potter drinks his milk if he wakes up!" Dobby's tone is pleading?

"Milk?" I keep my voice low and even.  I have a lot of practice staying calm when in fact I want to growl.

"Yes, Harry Potter _must_ drink his milk.  Else _she_ will be so VERY angry!"  Dobby stares at me earnestly.  I might have imagined it, but at the mention of the mysterious _she_ he seemed to shiver slightly.

"I will make sure he drinks his bloo... his milk.  Now please go!" I speak through gritted teeth.

Luckily Dobby does not seem to take offense.  Rather he nods vigorously and vanishes.

Who in the name of all the principles of magic is _SHE_?  Umbridge?  Her power at Hogwarts is over, and I cannot imagine Dobby taking orders from her with regard to Harry in any case.  McGonagall?  Protective as she can be, I can't see her prescribing milk as a regimen.

The thought of McGonagall reminds me that I have a bundle of letters waiting in the bag which was no longer sitting in the hall when I came through.  Luckily I see it in plain sight near a neatly folded pile of clothes.  Doubtless Dobby moved it so that he could remove my robes.  As I bend to pick the shabby bag up I see that he has indeed removed the robes, as well as my socks and undergarments.  My underpants are greyer and more tattered now than Severus' ever were.  Another flood of shame, this one with multiple roots, roles over me.  I hastily remove the letters and make my way back up to Harry's door.

I can't bear to go back in to the room.  I think if I have to sit there with helpless, poisoned Harry I will die from worry and sorrow and anger.  Instead I sit on the floor outside his door, my back to the wall, and start leafing through my mail.

There are three letters, two from Hogwarts, one from the Ministry, and one with an international owl frank and no return address.  I pick up the Ministry letter first, expecting it to be a routine communication from the Committee for the Control of Magical Creatures.  I have to check in periodically, rather like a paroled criminal.  At least they are not requiring a detailed account of my sexual partners yet, although such has been proposed – as has mandatory sterilization of all werewolves.

But it is not from the Committee:

_5 July, 1996_

_Dear Professor Lupin,_

_I hope this letter finds you well.  I write to express my condolences, and those of the ministry, on the loss of Sirius Black in the recent disturbance at the Department of Mysteries.  It is my understanding that Mr. Black was your friend and schoolmate, and I hope that the recently re-opened investigation will serve to lay to rest any lingering questions of injustice that might still adhere to Mr. Black's memory._

_With the return of You-Know-Who, the Ministry has instituted a policy of vigorous outreach to populations unfortunately estranged from the mainstream of wizarding society.  It is our belief that a united front is absolutely necessary in the upcoming struggle.  We would be very pleased if you would consent to join us as a special liaison to under-represented and disadvantaged portions of the magical population of Great Britain.  Your knowledge of these groups, and the high esteem in which you are held by the Ministry and the staff and students of Hogwarts, make you a perfect candidate for this important position._

_As you know, a full review of the legislation governing activities of certain portions of our population is underway.  Your help in this review process might prove of historical significance._

_Finally, we must be candid in our admission that we are well aware of the high regard in which you are held by The Boy Who Lived.  The tragic misunderstandings of the past year, as well as the insistence of the Ministry upon proof of You Know Who's return before risking a public panic (a policy we fear that Mr. Potter may have misconstrued as distrust and hostility on our part) has left the Ministry sadly estranged from Harry Potter.  We have every hope that your good offices can aid in mending this breach.  We are particularly anxious to move forward in healing this wound, as the imminence of war makes discussion of appropriate security arrangements for Mr. Potter and the other young heroes of our world absolutely crucial._

_Although we understand that you would probably be insulted by an offer of a monetary contract for your participation in our war effort, please be assured that the ministry is prepared to be very generous in compensation both in terms of salary and expenses.  Also I can inform you that as an official of the government you would have wide latitude under the provisions of laws for the control of lycanthropy._

_Although we understand that you might want to consider this possibility for some short time, we must insist that you contact us within the next 72 hours._

_Sincerely,_

_Percy Weasley_

_Senior Secretary_

_Ministry of Magic_

I let the letter lie in my lap for a moment, then crumple it with a savage contraction of my fingers.  Once I would have been overjoyed at the thought of the ministry reaching out to magical creatures and half-breeds.  But this missive just leaves me feeling sickened and dirty.

The sound of soft footsteps alerts me to Poppy's arrival.  She smiles at me as I rise quickly.

"Is Mr. Potter worse, Remus?" Her tone is brisk and businesslike, her expression slightly annoyed, but the tension in her shoulders and stance screams of concern.

"I think he's been poisoned, Poppy."  

I hear a squeak of dismay behind me and realize too late that Dobby has overheard.  Undeterred, I outline what I have smelled.

To my relief, Poppy does not dismiss my suspicion with a sneer.  Instead she frowns and sighs.  "I will have to take some samples and see if I can find anything.  Meanwhile I need to talk to Albus.  We _must_ get him back to Hogwarts or to St. Mungo's."

"Very well."  I follow her into the room.  Reaching down, I shake Harry gently.  "Harry, wake up."

"Hmmm, Moony?" He wakes slowly, rubbing his eyes.  As he sits up a spasm of shivers wracks his torso.

"How do you feel, Harry?"  Stupid question, but I have to say something.

He shrugs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.  It is too fast and he drops his head into his hands with a groan

"Hello, Mr. Potter," Madame Pomfrey says briskly.

"Madam Pomfrey, what're you doing here?" Harry backs up slightly onto the bed, his eyes narrowing.

"I need some samples, Mr. Potter.  This won't take a moment then you can get back to resting."

"That's OK.  I need to get up, anyway." He casts his gaze over to his desk, where I see the auror texts Tonks lent him lying open.

"Harry," I say softly, "you need to rest."

"I agree," Poppy says.

Harry starts to retort, then looks thoughtfully at Madam Pomfrey and shuts his mouth.

"_Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary_," I think fondly.  At least he has learned something of how not to engage in futile argument.  Hermione Granger's influence, I suppose.

"Well," I smile at Harry awkwardly, "I'll be downstairs if I'm needed.  Don't forget that we need to get ready for the solicitor's in a little while."

"Yeah.  I killed Sirius.  I might as well get my share."

I take in a breath, feeling as if somebody has kicked me in the gut.  _Harry Potter is saying bad things_, indeed.  Harry's eyes are dark and dull, so unlike the lively green eyes I remember.

"Harry, no!"  I surge forward.  "You can't say that!"

Harry turns bright red, opening his mouth to yell.

"Mr. Potter," Poppy breaks in softly, "what exactly is this?" She has raised his shirt and is looking at something on his back.  

"Nothing," Harry says sullenly, "just a sore."  He winces as Poppy runs a finger over his shoulder blades.

"Remus, come here." Poppy's voice is cool and tight.

I hurry across the room and look at Harry's back.  The pain in my gums blossoms into bright agony.

Harry's back is disfigured with dozens of large, weeping blisters.  They are grouped in clear lines, spelling out an unmistakable word.

MURDERER

A/N: Thus it begins.  This is only the first third of what was originally going to be an introductory chapter.  The next chapter blends this installment with HBM I.  We will see the reading of Sirius' will and Remus will learn of the plot developments that are occupying Albus in Scotland while Remus is being horrified at Privet Drive.  We will learn more about the nature of Albus' ward beads.  And for those of you who have asked how the Ministry know enough about the prophecy to threaten Harry with the Thrall Laws, Remus thinks that's a good question, too.


	2. Stigmata Arcanum

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and situations owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N: Well, here we go folks.  Everyone please remember to join my group.  The address is on my profile page.

HERE BE MONSTERS II: PSALM OF THE WOLF

Chapter Two: Stigmata Arcanum

I grind my aching back against the wall and try not to weep.

Poppy shoved me out the door immediately after revealing the obscenity burned into Harry's back.  Even now she is conducting a complete examination, ignoring his loud protests with her usual professional efficiency.

_Murderer._

How has this happened?  How _could_ it have happened?

I let my fingers writhe together.  Oh to have Wormtail's thick neck between my palms!

Sighing I reach for my unopened mail and leaf through it.  One of the letters from Hogwarts is from McGonagall, the other from Flitwick.  _Flitwick?_  What could Flitwick want?  The international letter appears to be a brief note from Hagrid at Beauxbatons.  None of them excite my attention enough to read.

Harry's door finally opens and Poppy steps forth, her expression enough to kill a basilisk.  What little hope I had remaining fades into darkness.

"Remus, please come downstairs for a moment," she says stiffly, scarcely casting me a glance.  That is not good.  That is not good at all.

We walk down to the Dursleys' neat-as-a-perfect-little-pin living room and she sits stiffly on the edge of the couch.  I take the seat beside her.

"What kind of training have you been doing with Harry, Professor Lupin?"  Her use of my formal title is a severe warning sign.

"I'm not sure I'm at liberty to say, Poppy."  As trusted as Madam Pomfrey is, she is not a member of the Order.

"I suggest you _make_ yourself at liberty, Remus," she answers, her tone like ice.

I stare at her in amazement.  Her expression is sterner than I have ever seen.

"General training in DADA and Charms, mostly."  I suppose that's true, and safe enough.  "Also Harry has been practicing Occlumency."

"And what kind of physical training?"

"Physical?"  I feel a headache gathering between my eyes.  "Almost none.  I think Tonks has been showing him some very basic maneuvers from first level auror training, but nothing strenuous."

"And Auror Tonks, do you think she would be inclined to be abusive in this training?"  Poppy's voice cuts like a whip.

"Tonks?"  I am utterly incredulous.  "You know her, Poppy!"  

"Answer me please."

"Tonks dotes on Harry, Poppy.  And she doesn't have it in her to abuse anybody, you know that!"  Tonks and I have our differences, but the clumsy young Auror truly does not have a cruel thread in her entire fabric.  "Now, if you would..."

"The blisters," she says slowly, "show evidence of being administered by a heated piece of metal, most likely a branding iron."

I almost fall off the couch.  "What?"

"In addition," she continues in a professional tone, "Mr. Potter has bruises on his wrists and ankles from the use of restraints and severe inflammation of his palate and throat indicating he has recently been gagged for an extended period.  From the swelling in his vocal cords I would surmise he spent most of the time screaming." 

My mind slows down.  For a few seconds that stretch on for multiple eternities, I feel the world slowly spinning about me.  A deep breath rattles into my dry mouth, then out.  Finally another manages to fill my lungs.  "What?"

"I believe I was quite clear, Remus.  Harry has been quite severely tortured in the very recent past."

"How recent?"

"The blisters are extremely fresh.  I would say within the last few hours."

"The last few... DOBBY!"  My voice goes louder than I had intended.  Dobby pops into being simultaneously with Petunia flying in from the kitchen, her face a mask of repugnance and annoyance.

"Yes, Professor Loopy?" Dobby asks eagerly, evidently not at all put out by the volume.  Then again, he was probably used to much worse at Malfoy Manor.

"Has Harry been in the house all day?"

"Yes, Professor Loopy."  Dobby nods briskly.

"You are sure?"

"Yes, Dobby is sure.  Dobby is positive!  Dobby would know if Harry Potter had left the house!"  I have no doubt that is correct.

"Has anyone else been here today?"  I look at both Dobby and Petunia.

"No, Professor Loopy.  Harry Potter spoke to Master Albus on his teleofone, and then went to take his nap."

Teleofone?  Oh, yes, Minerva mentioned the enchanted cell phones Albus and Harry have been using.

I look at Petunia, who glares back at me.  With mounting irritation I ask, "Well?"

"I don't see what business..."

"Harry is hurt quite badly," I say softly, surprised at the control in my own voice, "and that is very much my business."

"WHAT!"  That is Dobby.  "Harry Potter was hurt while Dobby was on duty!  OH BAD DOBBY.  BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD!!!"  The little elf's face crumples into a look of utter misery.  Falling to his knees, he begins to bang his head against the floor.

"Dobby, quit it!" I yank him up, I confess none too gently.  "We don't have time for that bloody nonsense right now!"

"Professor Loopy..."

"Dobby," I say hurriedly, "just get upstairs and don't let Harry out of your sight.  Not for one moment; not for any reason!"

"Dobby is going!" The elf suits deed to word by vanishing.  I turn my attention back to Pentunia.

"We have done nothing to the boy!" She screeches.   "He has ..."

"His name is _Harry,_" I say through gritted teeth.  "Now, you can talk to me or you can talk to one of my associates.  If you are lucky it will be Alastor, the gentleman with the rather excitable eye.  If you are not it will be Professor Dumbledore."

Petunia blanches.  "No one has been here today," she says softly, "No one!"

"Are you quite sure, Petunia?  If we discover you are lying..."

"No one!" Her face is recovering its color although her eyes remain somewhat wild.  "I'll take veritaserum if you like!"

"Veritaserum?" I ask in surprise.  "How do you know about that?"

"The same way I knew about dementors," she replies, her tone cold with contempt.  "I had a witch for a sister."

I take in a heavy breath and stare at her.  "You might try to remember that Lily _was_ your sister.  And that Harry is your close relative."

Her eyes narrow and she straightens her back, becoming straight and rigid.  "That old man had no _right_ to bring the boy here!" Her tone is thick and hissing, laden with resentment and old hurt.  Amazing how a muggle woman can sound so exactly like Severus.  "This is _my_ house.  It was _my _life, _my _family!  You had no right!"

"Have you no room for compassion, Mrs. Dursley?" Poppy's voice is low and surprisingly sad.  For all her professional briskness, compassion is Poppy's most defining trait.

Sensitivity, however, is not high among Petunia's virtues.  She only sneers at Poppy – another good Severus imitation – and says, "Just get the boy well and get him away from here.  Keep him away from here."  Whirling on her heel, she stalks back into the kitchen.

Poppy shakes her head and sighs softly.  "I need to get back to Hogwarts and speak with Professor Snape.  I will need his help with these samples, I am sure."

"Very well, Poppy.  I will speak with Albus."

"Do that."  She rises and makes for the door.  "And, Remus?"

"Yes?"

Unexpectedly she gives the tiniest of smiles. "I did not really think it was you or Tonks.  However, I have been wrong about people before."

I have an urge to ask her just when that was.  Madam Pomfrey's powers of diagnosis are astounding.  But perhaps they do not carry over into being a judge of character.  In any case, she is gone before I can give voice to my question. 

_Breathe, Remus._  

I do; a deep breath in and out.  Slowly, I start to pace.

_Breathe._

Another breath.  Harry needs me.  I must clear my head.

_Breathe._

Collect your thoughts.  You taught DADA at Hogwarts for Heavens sake!

_Breathe._

Slowly, painfully, avenues of thought I haven't used since before Sirius' fall begin to open.  It has been only a fortnight, but they feel as if they have been glued shut for a lifetime.

_It has been a lifetime._

_Breathe._

Logic.  I used to pride myself on my reasoning ability.  Even before Hogwarts, reasoning and puzzles were things at which I excelled.

_Breathe_.

Let the pain move aside for a moment.  Let the anger fade.  Harry needs you.

_Breathe._

Sirius had the best arse though.

_Laugh.  Breathe._

The thing is, now that I think of it, he really did.

_Breathe._

The pain fades.  It is still there, aching inside me like a rot of the soul, but it is a dull, manageable pain.  For the first time in nearly two weeks, my thoughts run in clear lines through a head that aches only a little.

_Breathe._

Harry needs me.  Be the DADA Professor again.

_Breathe.  Begin._

Harry bears the marks of recent torture.  Yet two witnesses say he has not been out of the house nor has anyone else entered.  Nor to my knowledge have the wards alerted Albus of problems.

I close my eyes and imagine a blank sheet of parchment such as that on which we inscribed the Marauder's Map.  In my mind, I reach out and mark:

Possibility 1: Petunia and Dobby are mistaken.  Unlikely, especially Dobby.

Possibility 2: Dobby and Petunia are lying: Impossible, especially Dobby.

Possibility 3: Dobby and Petunia have been obliviated: Possible, although memory charms are tricky on house-elves I am told.  

However, none of these possibilities addresses the problem of the wards layered on the house.  An intruder would have had to disable the wards without Albus or anyone else noticing, entered the house, disabled Dobby and Petunia, tortured Harry, then obliviated Dobby and Petunia with remarkable efficiency.  And why torture Harry in the house anyway?  Why not kill Harry, or take him to Voldemort?  

There is also the problem that there is no evidence of the torture process in the house.  I would have smelled seared flesh clear from the sidewalk outside.  That I can guarantee.

Overall the idea that the wounds were inflicted by literal physical means seems far-fetched.  Unfortunately, in the wizarding world there are many non-physical methods of inflicting physical harm.

In my mind's eye my hand places a large scribble atop the parchment, crumples it up, and throws it aside to reveal a blank piece of paper.

_Breathe._

Atop this parchment of the mind, I write "Poison?"  Unfortunately that runs up against the problem of my limited abilities with potions.  I write "Consult Poppy/Severus."

In my mind's eye I turn the page and write "Legilmency?"  This seems a very likely possibility.  Some forms of mental attack can have physical manifestations.  Indeed, there are dark tales of assassins specializing in such practices.

_Breathe._

Against this is the fact that Voldemort would likely be leery of confronting the emotions raging within Harry right now.  Also, Harry has been practicing his Occlumency, of that I am sure.  An assault on a mind that is even partially occluded yields unmistakable signs, none of which Harry seems to exhibit.

_Breathe._

A disease sending?  Such a spell would have to be very powerful.  It would almost certainly run afoul of the protections Albus talks of Harry having here – as indeed would an attack by Legilmency or an attempt to apparate Harry away for torture.  Besides, Poppy would certainly have detected any such thing almost immediately.

_Breathe._

What else?  I mentally turn a page in my notebook and pause.  What else?  I have heard of this type of thing somewhere else, I am sure.

_Breathe._

And then I remember.  It was one of the long nights at Grimmauld Place when Sirius could not sleep for worry about Harry and cruel memories of imprisonment.  We had been drinking, which was a mistake because Sirius never could handle his liquor.  He tended to get depressed.  And when a man who has been in Azkaban gets depressed, it isn't pretty.

_I heard him die, Remus_, I hear Sirius say, _I heard him choking.  _I can see Sirius, his eyes haunted, his hair hanging before around his face in thick, moss-like tendrils.  _He wanted to die.  He dreamed of hanging himself.  And he made it happen.  He made it happen without even having a rope._

It was one of the prisoners at Azkaban.  One who made his inner thoughts manifest on his body.  With, of course, the help of a unique breed of creatures.

_Dementors_.

I write the word on the page in my mind.  People who are especially susceptible to dementors will often show physical manifestation.  Their nightmares can wreak havoc on their own flesh.

Harry is especially susceptible to dementors.  But none of those foul things have come near Privet drive.

_Breathe._

There is another possibility.  One that is more likely than any of the above.  I don't like it though.

_Breathe._

Because it means that Harry is going mad.

_Breathe._

Time to talk to Harry.

The doorbell rings, and I let out a sigh of pure relief.  Now I know what the muggles mean when they say "saved by the bell."

I open the door to reveal – nothing.  A moment later, Nymphadora Tonks appears in the hall, stepping out from beneath an invisibility cloak.  Her hair and coloring are subdued for once, as are the dark dress robes she is wearing.  "Remus," she says surprised, "Why aren't you ready!  We'll be late as it is!"

I had forgotten that Tonks would be meeting us here for the trip to the reading.  I am profoundly grateful, however.  "We have a very bad problem, Tonks."

"When don't we?" she asks lightly.  But her smile collapses when she catches sight of the expression on my face.

With short, quick sentences I describe the situation with Harry and Poppy's findings.  Tonks does not need her metamorphmagus abilities to change color as I speak.  Her complexion shifts from pink to ghastly pale to fierce red to pale again with no need of magical aid.

"Remus, I..." she gulps, "This is horrible."  For a moment, I think the young auror is going to burst into tears.  Luckily she doesn't, or I would join her.

"Let's go talk to him," I say softly.  "But for heaven's sake be careful what you insinuate!  We don't need him to go all defensive on us!"

She nods her understanding.  Taking a deep breath, I lead the way up the stairs.

"Dobby, leave!" Harry's voice suddenly echoes from one of the half open doors in the upper corridor.

"Dobby has said he will not take his eyes off Harry Potter," the house elf's voice answers evenly, "and Dobby will not."

Exchanging a questioning glance with Tonks, I hasten down the hallway to the door in question.  The sight that greets me is almost enough to elicit a laugh.  Harry is standing in the middle of a spotless bathroom, his fly partly undone.  Dobby is standing placidly nearby, his arms folded, his gentle gaze firmly fixed on Harry with the intent of a hunter sighting his prey.

"Dobby," Harry protests angrily, "I have to use the bathroom!"

"Harry Potter can do that while Dobby is here," the elf replies calmly.  

"Dobby, I'm telling you..."

"Gentlemen," I interrupt, a chuckle in my voice despite myself, "Is there something amiss here?"

"Dobby won't go away and let me use the bathroom!" Harry exclaims, his tone having a little of the petulance of an angry eight year old.

"Dobby is only..."

"Dobby," I say quickly, cutting the elf off before he can reveal that he is acting on my instructions, "I appreciate your loyalty and so does Harry.  But I think this is _one_ thing he can do by himself."

"Well, if Professor Loopy thinks so."

"I do."

The elf pops out.  I give Harry a slight bow and smile, closing the door as I back out.  Tonks is holding her hand over her mouth, suppressing a burst of laughter.  We walk back to Harry's room, where I sit in his chair while Tonks, mindless of her dress robes, arranges herself cross-legged on the floor.

Harry comes in momentarily, pulling off his shirt and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.  He freezes when he sees the two of us.  "Uhm, I need to change," he says.

"Yes, Harry, but we need to talk about something first."  I give him what I hope is a warm smile.

He frowns at me, and then flops almost defiantly onto his bed.  "What is it?" His tone is sullen.

"It's about the blisters on your back."  Poppy healed them, but you can still make them out, very faint under a layer of healing balm.

"It's just a sore!" Harry exclaims angrily, "Why doesn't anybody listen to me?"

"We are listening, Harry." I say softly.  "We are just concerned when you hurt, that's all."

He nods sullenly, his eyes clouded.

"Have you been having any dreams lately, Harry?"  He's been taking Dreamless Sleep potion, but that is only effective to a point.

He shrugs.  "Not that I remember."

"What do you mean by that, Harry?" I probe gently.

He sighs in exasperation.  "WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP BOTHERING ME ABOUT THIS KIND OF THING?  HOW DO YOU FEEL, HARRY?  ARE YOU DREAMING, HARRY?  HOW ABOUT TELLING ME WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON EVERY NOW AND THEN?"  His face turns bright red and his fists clench as he bellows his anger.

Then Tonks reaches up slowly and takes his right hand in a gentle grip.  She begins to slowly stroke the back of his hand with her fingers, saying nothing as she caresses the scars left by Umbridge's detentions.  The anger seems to visibly ebb out of Harry.  It is as if the loving attention to his abused skin robs his rage of its force.

"Harry," Tonks says softly, her tone coaxing, "This is very important.  What do you mean?"

He sighs again, this time wearily.  "Nothing much.  I just remember feelings ... impressions.  Not really dreams at all."

"And what were those impressions, Harry?" I ask.

"Pain," he says in a dull, distant voice, "Pain and hurt and..."

"And what, Harry?" Tonks asks.

"Shame," he says so softly it is almost another sigh.

"Well, Harry," I say as brightly as I can, "That may or may not mean anything.  Let's get ready.  We will talk to Professor Dumbledore at the reading."

"Fat lot he cares," Harry mumbles.  

"That isn't true, Harry." I answer gently.  "Albus and I don't always agree, but he _does_ care very deeply about you."

"Well, he cares about keeping his weapon nice and sharp."  Harry snorts and gives a sneer that disturbingly reminds me of his aunt, which means it also reminds me of Severus.  "He kept me in the cupboard for ten years so I wouldn't rust."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.  My vocal cords are frozen.  How can I find words to help this wounded child understand, to help him accept, that growing up in the cupboard might very well have been the only way he could have grown up at all?  Oh, I could use logic, and a powerful case could be made from the evidence of Harry's time at Hogwarts.  After all, there he was in supposedly the safest place in Wizarding Britain, surrounded by ancient wards and spells, guarded by some of the most powerful wizards in the world – indeed ultimately under the watch of _the_ most powerful wizard in the world.  

And yet, still he has been menaced by Deatheaters, basilisks, dementors, and murderous schemers.  How could a helpless infant have hoped to survive in such a dangerous world, filled with dark wizards dedicated to, no, _obsessed_ with, killing him? It is a powerful case, indeed, but one that I think would not move the hurt and pain welling inside Harry right now.

Tonks once again comes to my rescue.  "Harry," she says softly, still gently stroking his hand, "Dumbledore is very hard to understand.  But if there is one thing I do understand about him, it is that he loves you.  The entire Order loves you.  Well..."

"Except Snape." Harry spits the Potion Master's name out with a tone of vicious hatred that I find truly frightening.

"Now isn't the time to get into a discussion of Severus," I interject.  "Let's get changed and on our way.  We are going to be very late as it is."

Graves, Garman, and Reed have many important clients.  The wards on their offices are thus quite sophisticated and powerful.  In addition, they have a flexible link to the floo network, one that can be connected or severed with relative speed and ease.  In order to increase security for tonight's proceedings, they have severed the connection and provided portkeys active for only a brief window of time.  We barely get changed in time to gather around the quill provided by Hermes.  After a few seconds of disorientation, we find ourselves in the firm's lobby.

"Ah, there you are!"  Hermes himself is waiting for us, clad thankfully in much more subdued attire than was the case this morning, although he still moves in a small cloud of lilac scent.  He comes forward smiling, but pauses in mid-stride and shoots a look of concern at Harry.

I follow his gaze and see with alarm that Harry has gone very pale and appears to be weaving slightly.  Portkey travel is not anywhere near as nauseating as floo transport, but it can be unsettling, and Harry is already suffering from the nauseating effects of Poppy's medications.  "Hermes, I believe we have need of a loo, please."

"Of course," Hermes exclaims, fluttering like a great black butterfly, "Right behind you, young man!  First door to the right!"

Harry doesn't stand on ceremony, but immediately dashes for the indicated doorway.  The sound of soft retching can be heard immediately through the door that he leaves half-open.

"Oh, dear," I hear Hermes exclaim, "Professor Dumbledore, it does seem that Mr. Potter took his journey poorly."

I turn back toward Hermes to see Albus advancing across the lobby from a set of sliding double doors set in the opposite wall.  Through them I see a large room where the Weasley's seem to be gathered.  Molly makes to follow Dumbledore, but Arthur catches her arm and holds her back.

"Remus," Albus says evenly, "We were beginning to be concerned."  His eyes are tired – tired and worried.  Even worse is the smell that is coming off of him.  Under the smell of dust and velvet and lemon drops is the sour smell of an old man's fear.  Albus Dumbledore is afraid, and that is enough to make any sane person's bowels turn to water.

"Albus, I'm afraid we need to have a word immediately.  I'm sorry, Hermes," I make a gesture of apology to the solicitor, "But it really is absolutely necessary."

"We are here to serve," Hermes says calmly.  "Would you care to use one of the smaller meeting rooms?"

"If it is convenient," I answer.

Hermes beckons us to follow him.  I quickly tell Tonks to wait for Harry then walk with Albus and the solicitor down a short hallway into an elegant room with an ornate fireplace and a highly polished oak table.  I note that none of the paintings in the lobby, hallway, or room are of the wizarding kind.  I suppose it would be difficult to conduct confidential and delicate business with portraits listening in.

Hermes backs out of the room, closing the door behind him. Albus goes and takes a chair in front of the empty hearth, while I sit across from him.

"Well, Remus, what is the emergency of the hour?" Albus' eyes twinkle slightly, but only slightly.  It seems to me his voice sounds slightly apprehensive.  And the smell of fear definitely grows sharper.

"It's Harry."

"That is not surprising," Albus answers lightly.  However, despite his tone, the twinkling in his eyes dies immediately.  

Taking a deep breath, I relate what I saw, Poppy's findings, and my own reasoning.

Once, when I was a child, my father took me to a very boring banquet.  I spent the entire evening watching an ice sculpture in the middle of the table melt.  It seems to me now that Albus collapses just as that sculpted wizard did long ago, but in an instant rather than over the space of long hours.  He seems to draw into himself, loosing the ability to sustain his own weight, slumping and melting all at once.  His eyes ... his eyes are like raw wounds.  And the sour smell suddenly turns bitter.  The smell of fear giving way to something I thought I would never sense from the headmaster – despair.

When he speaks his voice is flat and rough, filled with naked pain.  And the words he speaks are those that I had dreaded to say to myself standing in the living room of Privet Drive, the words that I had prayed I would not hear.  "_Stigmata Arcanum."_

I groan, rubbing my temples.  "Do you really think so, Albus?"

"I think there is no real doubt."

_Stigmata Arcanum_ is a condition little spoken of among wizards, for it is considered shameful in the extreme.  Sometimes when a wizard is under extreme mental duress, is indeed in the grips of intense mental illness, he needs no dementors to wreak manifestations on his own body.  The appearance of the stigmata once labeled a wizard as pariah.  Now most wizards view them as a sure sign of insanity.

"Is there any hope for Harry then, do you think?" I hear my own voice nearly cracking.

To my surprise Albus straightens and seems to gain strength.  The bitter odor recedes.  There is even a hint of a twinkle returning to his eyes.  "Remus, I'm surprised at you!  You of all people should know better than to credit every tale you hear about arcane conditions!"

"Then the stigmata are not a sign of insanity?" I ask with relief.

"Far from it.  They are much more common than is usually supposed.  They are even known to occur among muggles."

"Yes, but I thought those cases were of religious significance."

"That is a controversial subject.  In any case, as I said the stigmata are much more common that most people think.  You don't hear much about them because families keep them hidden out of shame and fear and ignorance.  Most people who suffer from them, I am given to understand, are indeed desperately ill, but far from insane.  If Harry has indeed been poisoned, as you believe, that condition would lower his defenses and make the manifestation of the stigmata even more likely."

I smile in relief.  "Then we need not worry about putting Harry in St. Mungo's yet."

"Oh, Harry will need skilled help, of that I have no doubt." Albus' voice is suddenly leaden.  "But St. Mungo's is the last place he needs to be right now."

"I thought you had great respect for the Healers there."  I am surprised at Dumbledore's hesitation.

"Well, there is some question about Deatheater influence among the psychiatrists." 

"I did not realize that." I am in fact stunned to hear it.

"It is far from proven, but you see the danger."  Albus grimaces.

"I do indeed."  

Dumbledore spreads his hands and smiles sadly.  "I have made some inquiries about acquiring other help for Harry.  But in the meantime it is very important he stay away from St. Mungo's.  And it is also very important the Ministry hear nothing of this. I unfortunately have some disturbing news of my own.  Do you remember about the Thrall Decrees from your History of Magic lessons?"

"Yes," I say slowly, confused.  The smell of fear coming from Albus has suddenly become much stronger again. "They were decrees from the Danish period.  Someone involved in a prophecy could be named a Thrall, or slave, of prophecy.  That person then forfeited all rights.  In effect they became a weapon or tool under the law rather than a person."

"Very good.  I'm glad someone managed to stay awake during Professor Binns' lectures."

I shrug.  "It wasn't because of the subject.  That was when Sirius and James used to do their plotting.  What do the thrall decrees have to do with anything?"

"I have strong reason to believe the Ministry intends to invoke these decrees with regard to Harry."

It's a good thing the table is well-lacquered.  Otherwise my fingernails would leave deep scratches in the surface.

"How...?" My question ends in a strangled and incoherent grunt.

"I talked with Amelia Bones today.  It seems that Percy Weasley has requisitioned some old law books from her office – the only books in the Ministry complex dealing with the thrall decrees."

"Bastard."

"Oh, his parentage is not in doubt," Albus smiles coldly, "Nor do I suspect the idea originates with him.  I think it likely comes from his predecessor as Senior Secretary."

"Dolores Umbridge."

"Precisely.  She and Fudge have both been in St. Mungo's the last few days.  I am sure she probably took advantage of her proximity to press the idea on him."

I issue a low growl.  "That explains this."  I produce the letter from Percy and toss it to Albus.  He reads it in silence, his face a stony mask.

I rub my temples again.  "How would the Ministry even know about the prophecy, Albus?"

"They don't know about its contents, but its existence is recorded in the catalogs of the Unspeakables.  It did sit on the shelf in the Department of Mysteries for more than sixteen years, after all.  I'm sure that when they interrogated the captured Deatheaters they were told that Voldemort desired to obtain a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. A quick look through the catalog would reveal which one it must have been."

"So they just put two and two together and deduced that whatever is going on with Voldemort and Harry must relate to that prophecy," I say.

"Precisely." Albus sighs. "Not a very good legal case for invoking the decrees, but enough perhaps for them to have Harry seized, particularly if they cast it as 'security precautions.'"

"As they tried to do yesterday," I observe.

"Yes."  Albus leans forward and fixes me with his powerful gaze.  "And if they learn about the _Stigmata Arcanum_, public opinion will support them seizing Harry as insane.  Once he is in their hands, they can invoke the decrees all the more easily."

"After all," I say bitterly, "What better story than that poor Harry has been driven insane by the power of the prophecy?"

"What indeed?" Albus slumps again.

_Breathe_. Never mind that your lungs are cold as an ice storm. _Breathe._

"I have arranged," Albus says slowly, "To send Harry out of Britain, if necessary.  The Countess Elizaveta has said she will give him shelter at Durmstrang."

_Breathe_.  "Grindelwald's daughter?  Albus, are you sure?!"

"I am not sure of anything, Remus.  I only do what must be done, as I have done so often before." He looks old, and tired, and defeated.

"I understand, Albus."

He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes piercing and unusually shadowed.  "How is he, Remus?  How is Harry?"

"You have spoken with him, Albus."  I shift uncomfortably in the chair, trying vainly to evade his gaze.

I hear a rattling noise.  I look up and see that Albus has dropped what appear to be a string of beads onto the table.  "These," he says, "are linked to the wards at Privet Drive.  There are wards to tell me if Harry is ill, wards to tell me if he is in pain.  There are wards for depression.  I have had Minerva add wards for suicidal emotions.  And do you know what they tell me about Harry?"

I stare at him silently.

"Nothing."  His tone is bitter.  "They tell me little bits and pieces of fact.  But they tell me absolutely nothing about _Harry_.  And a five-minute phone conversation doesn't tell me much more.  Please, how is he?"

_Breathe._  "He is tired, and sick, and poisoned.  He is depressed and worried and I think, most of all, angry."

"Angry at me?"  His tone is even, but his eyes remain tragic.  I catch a hint of bitter despair once again.

"Among others, yes."  I take a deep breath.  "He is bitter.  Bitter over Sirius, bitter over fate, bitter over his life.  And who, in truth, can blame him?"

Albus buries his face in his hands.  There is definitely once again the odor of despair.  For a long moment, we sit in utter silence.  Then he speaks, not raising his head.  "What could I have done, Remus?  I had to keep him safe.  Despite our best efforts, our most powerful spells, both the Potters and the Longbottoms fell.  Only the Dursleys, odious as they are, offered him the protection he needed."

"Yes, Albus," I answer, "But at what cost?"

"That is a question I ask myself more often than you can have guessed." Albus replies, looking up.

"I know you say he must spend a minimum amount of time at the Dursleys' for the protections to hold," I venture, "But does it have to be _now_?  Couldn't we take him out of there and let him come back another time?"

"I'm afraid not," Albus says.  "The magic is both powerful but also curiously fragile.  It must be reinforced regularly.  It is true," his voice takes on a grim tone, "That if the protections would be much stronger and more flexible if the Dursleys had a more positive attitude toward Harry."

"If they loved him, you mean."

"Yes." The set of Albus' mouth is stern. "As it is the foundation of the protections is so shaky that they have almost fallen of their own on several occasions."

"Is that why you never intervened at Privet Drive to try and make things better for Harry?"

"Yes."  Albus' shoulders heave and fall as if he is suppressing tears. "For the protections to function the Dursleys must _willingly_ accept Harry.  I feared if I pressured them they would withdraw their assent, or else become so resentful that the protections would fail in any case."

"But you did ask us to threaten them this summer." I observe.

"Yes.  It was a grave risk, as is withdrawing Harry so early.  He really should remain for at least thirty days.  But as you say, that would be buying safety at a terrible cost."

"Merlin.  Why couldn't Lily have had a sibling that loved her?" I groan.

"That is another question I have asked myself more often than you can know."  Albus pauses.  "I have decided to allow Ron and Hermione to come to Harry at Privet Drive tomorrow."

I smile. "That will be very good.  I was afraid Harry would go..." I catch myself before I say "go mad."  Considering the situation, it would not be appropriate.

"I have also decided to have Alastor assist with the guard duty." Albus continues.

I nod in assent and understanding.  Moody may once have been a great Auror, but now he is crippled and he did not acquit himself well at the Ministry, getting knocked out with the first stunner.  This way we can keep him off the front line while allowing him to save face.

"Albus," I say slowly, "I do not want to leave Harry, but if you need me in Diagon Alley..."

"No!" Albus barks the negative so suddenly and decisively I almost jump.  He smiles slightly, and some of his old twinkle returns.  "I think you are needed where you are."

"If you are sure, Albus."

"I am.  Now, let us join the others.  We will speak again after the reading.  Oh," he stops and fixes me with a grave look, "I don't think now is the time to talk to Molly about the stigmata."

"No, Albus, I don't think that would be a good idea, either."

We find Hermes waiting for us in the main lobby, along with two other men in sober robes.  The elder of them comes forward and greets Albus with a tight smile.  "Albus, it's so good to see you again.  I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yes, Hermes, so do I.  Remus," Albus half turns to me, "This is my old friend, Hermes Reed."

By that I take it I am in the presence of Hermes Reed the First.  He greatly resembles one of the owls his firm employs.  He is gray, gaunt, and grave, with a long, sad face carved in deep lines.  He takes my hand firmly.

"I am pleased to meet you, Professor Lupin," he intones.  "I believe you know my grandson.  May I present my son, Hermes Reed, Jr.?"  

This Hermes is shorter than the other two, with a balding head and a bull neck.  He also takes my hand and gives it three swift pumps.

"Well," the eldest solicitor says, looking at his grandson, "Are we ready, Mr. Reed?"

"I believe we are.  What do you say, Mr. Reed?" He smiles at his father.

"I am ready if you are, Mr. Reed." The bullish man gives a small grin to his own father.

I realize that we have been privileged to witness one of those little ceremonies that are the foundation of family life.  I also realize that, against all odds, these three varied individuals really are quite fond of one-another.  After my dreary conversation with Albus, this heart-warming display is most welcome.

The room into which the Reeds lead us is furnished with heavy leather furniture.  Harry is sitting on a couch flanked by Ginny Weasley on his left and Hermione Granger on his right.  Ron lounges in a large chair on Hermione's other side, looking half-worried and half-resentful.  Tonks is in the matching chair on the outer side of Ginny Weasley, wearing an oddly similar expression.  Molly and Arthur are seated on a matching couch across from the youths.  Albus and I take chairs to either side of them.

The Reeds proceed to a large desk stacked with papers.  Hermes the Third sits directly behind the desk, his father and grandfather on either hand.

"Unless there is an objection," Hermes says in his pleasant tenor, "I will dispense with the legal boilerplate and proceed directly to the messages and bequests."

There is only silence.  Hermes quite correctly takes this as consent.  Picking up a piece of parchment, he begins to read:

I, SIRIUS ORION BLACK, in accordance with the laws and regulations of the Ministry for Magic of Great Britain, and within the metes and bounds thereof, do hereby ordain the following last will and testament.

To REMUS LUPIN, know that I have loved you as much as any friend could love another.  That our time together was cut so cruelly short I will regret for all eternity, as I know you will as well.  Although it is little enough, I leave you the sum of one hundred thousand galleons, with the hope that it will ease your path of the unjust pain you have suffered.  More importantly I leave you the most precious thing in my possession, the guardianship of HARRY JAMES POTTER, my godson, who has been the only bright thing in a very dark life these past many years.  I also leave you the property known as Number Seven Dawnhope Gardens, in the City of Dublin.  This property was acquired by my mother as an investment a few weeks before her death and to my knowledge has never been touched or sullied by the family Black.  Although I have never visited the house, I am told that it is very pleasant and that, like 12 Grimmauld Place, it is unplottable.   It is my dear wish that you may one day make a home for Harry and yourself there, far from the foul memories you both carry.  I go to my grave with the hope that the two people I love most in the world may find joy and peace in each other.

To ARTHUR AND MOLLY WEASLEY, I leave my gratitude for the love you have shown my darling Harry.  You and your family have provided him with the support and safety he has needed so badly through so many dangers and so much pain.  I name you the guardians of HARRY JAMES POTTER in the event that REMUS LUPIN should for any reason be unable to fulfill his duties.  I also leave you and your family the sum of fifty thousand galleons in a small effort at expressing my gratitude.

To RONALD WEASLEY and HERMIONE GRANGER I leave my respect and profound gratitude for the love and friendship they have given my Harry.  To each of you I leave the sum of ten thousand galleons, to be used for your own personal needs and pleasures.

To NYMPHADORA TONKS I want to say that you have been the only one of my relatives to have earned my love and regard these many years.  To you I leave the sum of twenty-five thousand galleons.

Finally, to HARRY JAMES POTTER, I leave you with the profoundest love I can give.  No father could have treasured a child as much as I have treasured you.  I joyfully wait the long distant day when you may join me again, in a place where I may finally show your parents what a wonderful son they have.  In the meantime I give you the remainder of my worldly goods, possessions, and property, detailed in full in the appendices to this document.  This consists in general of the property known as Twelve Grimmauld Place, otherwise known as the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; the contents of Gringotts Vaults 324, 891, and 783; and various properties, both corporate and real, both Wizarding and Muggle, located throughout Great Britain and Europe.  It is my wish that you make Twelve Grimmauld Place fully your own.  Let all reminders of my foul family be erased, let the Most Noble House of Potter be created on the ashes of the Black legacy.  Should you find it too painful to continue possession of the House, I understand.  I only ask that you allow our mutual friends to make use of the property as long as they require, and that you then have the House completely demolished and the lot sold with proceeds donated to an appropriate charity of your choosing.  Just make sure the donation is in your name, not that of my family.

I also direct that ALBUS DUMBLEDORE examine all contents of Gringotts Vault 783 prior to HARRY JAMES POTTER taking possession.  ALBUS DUMBLEDORE is to use what means he finds best to render the contents of said vault safe for my godson or any other innocent.  In the event that any item cannot be rendered safe, I direct ALBUS DUMBLEDORE to destroy the item if practicable, or to remove it to some undisclosed location for safekeeping if not.

I have enclosed personal letters for all of you.  I hope that these better convey the messages I wish you to understand.

SIRIUS ORION BLACK

Hermes' voice fades with a little cough.  I am blinking back tears.  Across from me Harry is staring hard at the floor.  Hermione and Ginny have each grabbed one of his hands.  As I watch Ron rises and places a hand on his shoulder.

There is complete silence. Sirius would have liked that.

He always did like to get the last word.


	3. Puppy Love

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG13

Disclaimer-Main characters and setting owned by J.K. Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS II: PSALM OF THE WOLF

Chapter Three: Puppy Love

Friday, 5 July, 1996

_21 32 GMT_

The silence holds for long minutes.  Finally, Hermes the Third clears his throat with a sound that impacts my lupine hearing like the rumbling of a thundercloud two inches from my head.  

"Mr. Black left personal letters for all of you," Hermes says in his gentle tenor.  "We will leave you with them, now.  There are still some papers to be signed before our business is through this evening.  We will be waiting outside when you are ready."  

He picks up the small pile of envelopes and begins to distribute them with grave little bows to each occupant of the room.  Harry takes his as if seizing a life preserver, gripping it so hard I can see his knuckles grow white across the room.  Hermes pauses in front of me and, catching my eye, gives me a sad smile as he hands me my envelope. As I catch sight of my name written in an all too familiar script across the vellum I feel acidic tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.   I am not surprised to see my hand trembling as I slit the envelope with the opener that Hermes the Second, following in his son's wake, thoughtfully hands me.

_Remus,_

_I'm dead.  That's as much as I know.  If you're reading this, I'm dead.  I'll take a guess that some Deatheater finally caught me in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It seems the most likely explanation of my passing at this particular time._

_I'll assume that you have already read the will and know that I've left you some money and a house.  More importantly, by far, I've left you the care of Harry.  If you mess it up, I'll be waiting for you on the other side and even though you are the last of my friends, I'll chew your meat to the bone.  _

_Of course, that assumes I'm able to chew anything once James and Lily get through with me.  I've made a right hash of being Harry's godfather, haven't I?  I get myself tossed into Azkaban, then mostly live apart from him all the rest of the time, trying not to get tossed back into Azkaban.  Then to make things even worse, I'm not at all sure that I did such a great job when I was with him.  Maybe Molly was right, after all._

_Anyway, I'm gone now and it's up to you.  You have the money and the house now.  You don't have the Ministry hunting for you under every rock.  Make a home for Harry like I was never able to._

_I know Dumbledore will talk about Harry's destiny.  How he is the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord and all that.  Excuse me for saying so, but Bugger Dumbledore!  Your job is to worry about Harry now, not the wizarding world, not the Dark Lord, not the fate of all magic, but Harry!  I may not know much about being a guardian, but I know that much.  Let Dumbledore deal with the big things.  You have enough to occupy yourself with now._

_Forgive me for what I have to say next, old friend.  I know you won't like it, but it's for Harry.  I know you love him, even if you don't like to admit it much._

_Harry needs you, Remus.  He needs the real you, a strong wolf to guard him and nurture him and help him.  He does not need a prefect to usher him around and read him the rules and twitter about what Dumbledore wants._

_It was a mistake for you to take that prefect's badge, Remus.  I know you resented it when I said it then, but I'll say it again now.  I was secretly pleased that Harry did not get one.  The last thing he needs is to be Dumbledore's good little boy.  That was the last thing you needed, too._

_Well, anyway, Harry is in your care now.  Do a better job than I did.  The Weasleys will help you.  Much as she and I argued, Molly at least really has Harry's interests at heart.  His friends will help you, too, especially Ron.  He has potential, that one.  Hermione, on the other hand, is a little too obsessed with the rules for anybody's good.  But she loves Harry, too._

_And remember, I'll be waiting.  And if that doesn't scare you enough, think of James.  And if THAT doesn't scare you enough, think of Lily._

_SIRIUS BLACK_

By the time I finish reading I can barely see the paper, so bleary with tears are my eyes.  Dropping the paper to my lap, I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand and look around.

Albus is sitting nearby, an inscrutable look on his face, his letter held in his hand.  Molly is crying softly on Arthur's shoulder.  Tonks has slumped in her chair, looking at something far away.  And Harry –

-- Harry is sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving.  I start to push myself out of the chair and go to him, but at that moment Hermione suddenly embraces him, burying her head against his shoulder.  Ginny follows suit on the other side.  And then in a blur of red hair and lanky limbs Ron is kneeling before them, throwing his long arms wide to hug the three of them.  The four young people disappear into a tight knot of comfort and grief.

I feel Dumbledore's hand descend, claw-like, on my forearm.  I turn to him and see a questioning look in his eyes.  I nod, receiving his unspoken message.  We rise together and exit the room quietly.

Hermes the Third rises from the secretary's desk to greet us as we pass through the door.  "Hermes," Albus says softly, "Might we make use of that excellent room again?"

"Of course," Hermes replies, picking up a large stack of papers, "But while you are in there, perhaps you could sign these, Remus?  I have marked the places requiring your signature.  There is quill and ink in the room."

"Could you have Mr. Potter drop in and speak to us when he comes out?" Albus asks.  "Thank you."

I take the stack of papers silently and follow Albus down the small corridor to the room where we spoke before.  I sink into my chair once more and proceed to busily sign the various papers.  It isn't until I look up that I see that Albus has not sat down, but is standing with his profile to me looking into the empty hearth.

"I never meant to harm Harry," Albus says softly.

I remain silent.  

"What I meant and what has happened are two different things, however," Albus continues with a sigh.  "So many plans have gone awry."

"Everyone's plans have a way of doing that, Albus," I say at last.

"Yes."  He continues to stare into the empty fireplace.  _I wonder what Sirius put in his letter?  _

"Has Harry said anything about Severus?" Albus asks.

"Snape?"  I snarl.  I am too tired to maintain my usual veneer of courtesy.  "Yes.  I fear that Harry's... dislike... for Severus has deepened into... something else."

Albus closes his eyes briefly and an expression rather like pain flits across his face.  Then he sighs heavily.  "I had feared as much."

I feel a flare of pain in my gums and sigh.  "Albus ..."

"Yes?"

_He needs a strong wolf._  Whatever you say, Sirius.

"Albus, I know you trust Severus.  But I must say, I... I don't understand why you thought he could teach Harry.  He has never made a secret of his feelings."

Albus stands as still as a statue for a moment.  Then he speaks slowly.  "I suppose I was too close to both of them."

"How do you mean?"

"Simply that both of them are extraordinary people.  I knew, of course, that they had an antipathy for one another.  But I thought that, in the press of necessity, they could put aside their dislike to work together."  

Albus turns towards me finally and gives a wan smile.  "I forgot that Harry is only a fifteen-year-old boy, however remarkable.  And I suppose, in truth, I forgot the lengths to which Severus had gone to antagonize him over the past five years.  Or at least I no longer appreciated what the feelings of a young boy would be when faced with such persecution."

I rub the back of my neck and frown.  I had noticed, during my time teaching at Hogwarts, that Albus had a regrettable tendency to find Snape amusing.  He had so long ago learned to see through arrogance and bitterness, had for so many years found them ridiculous, that he had perhaps lost the ability to empathize as much as he should with students who took Snape's injustice to heart.  "And Severus?"

"I have grown used to the idea that Severus is more than he appears.  He is a man with many hidden depths – as you well know.  He has been one of the pillars of my fight against Voldemort and his followers.  But I forgot that even the deepest oceans have their shallows, and even the strongest pillars have their weak points."

Albus gives me the faintest hint of a twinkle.  "I also found it hard to believe that anyone who saw inside Harry's mind, who saw his soul, could not... appreciate him."

"You underestimated Severus again, in other words."  Brave words, but I am trying to be a strong wolf.

"Yes.  And perhaps I overestimated Harry."  The twinkle dies a little.

My frown deepens.  "Albus, as you say, Harry is only a fifteen-year-old boy.  An extraordinary boy, it goes without saying, but still just a teenager.  I do think you asked too much of him."

"I have a way of doing that," he answers softly.

_That you do._

"Why did you wait so long, Albus?" I ask, giving vent to a question that has troubled me for several weeks.  "Why did you not begin Harry's Occlumency training immediately?"

He sits and looks down at the table as if fascinated by his own reflection in the polished wood.  After a moment, he looks up with a grave expression.  "I had a plan.  I always have a plan.  It went wrong."

The pain in my gums is almost unbearable.  "That doesn't tell me much, Albus."

"I know."  He seems about to continue, but there is a knock at the door.  He breaks off and gives me a warning look, to which I reply with a quick jerk of my head.  "Come in," he calls.

The door opens to reveal a smiling Hermes Reed the Third and a decidedly morose Harry Potter the First.  Hermes ushers Harry in with the fussy efficiency of one of those tiny Scots herding dogs, babbling meaningless compliments about his dress robes and asking for the name of his tailor.  But as his eyes meet mine I see they are filled with concern.  I give him the bravest smile I can, then turn my attention to Harry who is staring hard at the floor.  

"Well, young man," Hermes says brightly, "I will leave you here with Remus and Professor Dumbledore.  Please don't forget to come by my office and sign the papers when you are done!"

"Okay," Harry says quietly, resting his hands on the back of one of the chairs.

With a final worried look to Albus and me, Hermes backs out.  Albus moves forward close to Harry, and I rise to stand across the polished table from the two of them.

"How are you doing, Harry?" Albus asks with incredible gentleness.

Harry shrugs.  "Not too well, but I guess I'll live."  He still has not looked up.

Dumbledore frowns slightly.  "How have your relatives been treating you?"

"They've ignored me mostly." Harry shrugs again.  "That's better than usual.  It's not like they give a damn, anyway."

"Harry," Albus says in the same gentle tone, "I want you to believe that if I could have found another road to you having the protection you had to have, I would have taken it."

Harry shrugs again.  Dumbledore's expression is unreadable.

"I have decided to let your friends come and stay with you tomorrow," Albus says softly.

Harry looks up at that, and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.  His eyes actually seem to have some light in them.  "Thank you, sir."

"I think it will be good for all of you," Albus answers, his own eyes twinkling brightly now.

"Could we...?"

"No, Harry, you may not attend the Grand Opening.  It is too dangerous."

Harry presses his lips together and flushes angrily.  Then suddenly he winces and hangs his head with a soft groan.

"Are you OK?" I ask, feeling a stab of panic.

"I don't know," he answers without looking up.  He coughs, his entire frame shaking.  Albus and I exchange deeply worried looks.  "Have I been poisoned?" Harry asks in a low voice.

I look at Albus pleadingly.  His eyes are like two windows into the heart of tragedy.  With a deep sigh he turns to the coughing teen.  "We don't know, Harry.  Madame Pomfrey is researching the question now."

"I thought so," Harry says softly.  He stands, shoulders slumped, staring determinedly at the floor.

Slowly, hesitantly, Dumbledore extends his hand.  With a tentativeness that speaks of fear the headmaster places his hand against Harry's cheek, moving as gingerly as if he is cradling something extremely fragile and infinitely precious in his aged fingers – which indeed he is.

Harry takes a couple of breaths, his chest heaving.  Then, with a jerky motion as if he is moving against his will, he turns his head into Albus' hand, letting his cheek rest against the wizard's weathered palm.  With his eyes tightly shut he stands with his head cradled in Dumbledore's hand, his breath coming in soft gasps.

Dumbledore stands stone still.  It is as if he has a rare bird in his palm and is taking care not to frighten it away.  "Harry," he says in a low voice, "We will have you out of Privet Drive on Monday evening and must determine where you are to go.  Do you have any wishes?  I'm afraid the Burrow is too dangerous.  But you can come to Grimmauld Place if you wish."

Harry opens his eyes and stares at Dumbledore.  His green irises are filled with pain and loneliness.

Softly Dumbledore repeats, "Do you have any wishes, Harry?"  His own eyes are blazing like two blue suns.

Harry takes a few more ragged gasps and speaks, or more accurately groans.  "Home.  I want to go home."  

For a long moment they stand that way, stock still, Harry's eyes full of hurt and vulnerability looking into Dumbledore's shining irises.  The headmaster smiles and his eyes grow brighter, if possible.  "Very well, Harry.  You will come home."

To my surprise, far from seeming happy, Harry's eyes fill with moisture.  A moment later, a tear escapes one eye and rolls slowly down his cheek.  "Don't," he says softly, pleadingly, "Don't do it again.  Don't lock me away again.  Please."

Albus moved his thumb to wipe away the tear.  Somehow that simple half-arc of a wrinkled thumb was the most tender gesture I have ever seen.  "I won't," the headmaster answers softly, "You have my promise."

This time Harry really does smile.  It is a very small smile, but it is genuine, and I feel my heart soaring.  "To Hogwarts?" he asks.

"To Hogwarts," Albus replies firmly.  "Now, I think Mr. Reed has some papers for you to sign."

"Yes, sir." Harry gives us both another smile and departs, still trudging, but his shoulders more square than before.

"Oh, Harry!" Albus calls as he reaches the door, "Do we have your permission to examine the vault Sirius mentioned?  I thought that Remus and I might do that on Monday.  It would probably be best to do it as soon as possible."

Harry stops and turns.  He looks at Albus guardedly.  "Can I be there?"

I answer that.  "Harry, I don't think that would be a good idea.  Sirius specifically gave Albus this task because it's so dangerous.  I think we should respect his judgment."

Harry looks at me with narrowed eyes.  "Okay," he says coldly, "Do whatever you want to." He spins on his heel and leaves, letting the door close sharply behind him.

We watch the door for a moment.  Then I sigh softly.  "He does have a temper."

"Yes, he does," Albus allows.  "All things considered, it isn't at all surprising."

"Are you really going to take him back to Hogwarts?"

"I would not lie to Harry."

"Albus," I say, "I thought Hogwarts regulations strictly forbade students to be present on the grounds over the summer."

"They do," he replies, "But, as you well know, Remus, rules are made to be broken."  With a small chuckle he folds himself into a chair.  I do likewise.

Albus looks at his palm, rubbing his fingers together lightly.  "Harry needs to shave," he says in a wondering tone.

"Yes, he does.  Time does get away from us."

"I suppose that means someone had better speak to him about other adult matters." He looks at me with that infuriating bland expression of his.

_Oh, God, no.  He can't be serious._  

His expression does not waver.  In fact, he steeples his fingers and looks at me over his glasses.

"Albus, I don't know that I'm the one who should do that."

"And who else would you suggest?"

"Well, you...."

"I am approaching 150, Remus.  Although scarcely ready for the grave, I am also not the person Harry is likely to be comfortable talking to about such things."

_Good point._

"Well, how about..."

"You are his guardian now, Remus."

_Oh, God._

"How about I just take care of defeating the Dark Lord and somebody else handle this little detail?"

"Remus!"

"I'll teach him how to shave, how's that?"

"Remus!"  He gives me a severely disappointed over-the-glasses look.

"Do I have to?" I'm whining and I know it.

"No, you do not."

"Oh, all right I'll... what?"  Did I actually hear that correctly?

Albus smiles pleasantly.  "No, you don't have to, Remus.  We'll have Arthur do it.  I need to have a little chat with Ronald at his behest, anyway, so this can be a quid pro quo."

I let out a heavy sigh.  "Thank goodness!  That doesn't fall under the category of Defense against the Dark Arts, you know!"

"I suppose not, although you were a prefect, and I guess it could by a stretch of the imagination be considered a prefect duty."

"By a long stretch!" I counter.  "By the way, that reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask."  Actually, Sirius' letter brought it up.  "Why didn't you name Harry a prefect?  I mean, it caught us all be surprise.  We thought you would if for no other reason than to show confidence in him."

Dumbledore frowns then, looking suddenly tired.  But he smiles anyway.  "I did not want to punish him, Remus."

I snort in appreciation at that comment.  Being a prefect may be prestigious, but the honor very quickly seems rather small in the face of onerous duty.  As with most such things, the newness and excitement wears off quickly and one is left only with the work. "Is that related to why you did not want to begin his Occlumency training early in the year?" I ask.

"Yes." He traces a vague pattern on the table with one long index finger.  "What do you know about Occlumency?"

"I'm scarcely an expert.  I know enough to understand its most general applications to DADA."

Albus nods.  "The occlusion of a mind is readily discernible by a skilled Legilimens.  I knew that if – when – Harry began to become skilled in closing his mind, Voldemort would sense it.  Undoubtedly, he would launch a full scale attack in response."

"Was that not inevitable in any case?"

"I did not think it had to be," Albus answers.  "A full attack is not without risk to the Legilimens.  Even someone as unstable as Tom would make sure that there was something to be gained before undertaking it."

"You thought you could convince him otherwise?"  Certain things are beginning to fall into place.

"Yes.  Tom is not a patient man.  I thought that by isolating Harry, keeping him from the Order and from me, I could convince him that there was nothing worthwhile to be gained in expending energy invading Harry's mind."

"I see."  And I do.  "You were hoping that Voldemort would get frustrated and divert his energy elsewhere."

"Yes." Albus nods.  "That was my plan.  I knew that Harry would be hurt and angry by being isolated all summer.  I also knew his feelings would probably be wounded by not being picked as a prefect – although in truth I doubt he would have enjoyed a prefect's duties very much, not after the trauma he had been through.  But I thought that once he got to Hogwarts, among people who cared for him in familiar surroundings, he could --relax."

"Relax?"

Albus smiles sadly.  "As I say, that was my plan.  I wanted Harry to have a relaxing year, for once.  I thought that, if we could convince Tom to turn his attention elsewhere, and if I could shield Harry from distractions and burdens such as prefect chores, he could rest and heal."  

"I don't recall fifth year as being a restful time, Albus."

"Compared to what Harry usually faces, what are OWLS?" Albus smiles at me and gestures expansively.

"You have a good point, there." I rub the back of my neck and motion for him to continue.

"I hoped that he could concentrate on OWLS and classes, playing quidditch, and maybe a romance or two." Albus' eyes twinkle merrily. Then suddenly the twinkle dies completely.  "Unfortunately, I did not count on Fudge's reaction."

"Well, he certainly made his position clear after the Tri-Wizard Tournament," I venture.

"Yes, but I suppose I have too much faith in humanity."  Albus leans forward and rests his hands on the table.  "We, that is, Minerva and I, were taken aback by the speed with which the press and public rallied to Fudge's position.  And we certainly had not expected anything like Dolores Umbridge."

"I can readily believe that," I say bitterly.

"And so Harry's restful year turned into a nightmare." Albus now looks like he is about to cry.  "And what I wanted so badly to avoid happened in the worst way possible."

"Childhood's end," I say flatly.

"Yes."

We sit silently for a time.  Then Albus speaks in a heavy tone.

"Harry needs you badly, Remus.  I know that you are hurting.  But he needs you badly."

"Yes," I acknowledge, "I know."  I sigh.  "But I am a werewolf, Albus."

"I know what that means, Remus."

"I wonder if you do."  I look at him with a grim expression.  "I can hurt Harry in a lot of ways, Albus.  And I don't mean by infecting him."

"What do you mean then, Remus?"  He gazes at me over his glasses again, giving me his "headmaster" expression.

I'm not sure I can explain.  To one who has never experienced life as a wolf or a werewolf, it is a forest of concepts, all of which pale before the reality.  Wolves, and most especially werewolves, are extraordinarily intimate creatures.  They are fiercely demanding of others in their pack, and fiercely giving as well.  If I open to Harry, there will be no closing.  If I open, my hurt and pain will pour into him, and I will not be able to stop it.

I just shake my head and drop my eyes to the table.  "I will do my best, Albus."

"I suppose that is all I can ask, Remus." His voice is disappointed.

I feel a rush of anger.  _Damn him to Hell!  He has no right!  He doesn't know!_

The problem is though, that although he has no right, he _is _right.  Harry does need me.  And I realize now that I can't turn away. 

"Remus," he continues softly, "We need to plan for defending Harry from the Ministry."

I look up and nod fiercely.  "I agree.  What do you suggest?"

"Firstly, the Wizengamot will move as quickly as possible to remove Fudge.  But," he gives me another over-the-glasses look, "Until then, I think you should take Percy up on his offer."

"Why?" I am not totally surprised, but I would like to hear his reasoning.

"The Ministry hopes to use you to get to Harry.  That much is plain.  We can try to use contact with the Ministry to foil their plan.  They will expect that of course.  But there is something they don't know."

"The stigmata," I say.

"Exactly." Dumbledore leans forward to emphasize his point.  "They _must not_ discover the stigmata.  If they do, it will give them the leverage they need.  By working with them, even in a suspect position, you can give invaluable service in blocking them from gaining information."

"Very well," I say slowly.  "But helping Harry has to come first.  And I won't accept money."

"Agreed.  I think the Ministry would be highly suspicious if you did take their salary offer.  Well, more suspicious than they will be, anyway."

"I will go see Percy on Monday," I say.

"Good." Dumbledore smiles.  "Go see him first thing in the morning, then come to Gringott's and we will examine the vault.  Hopefully we will find the book Tyrrhenius Black stole from the Sidhe."

Oh yes, the map and spells to Cromm Cruach's mound.  The Order had briefed me on that, but I had nearly forgotten.  "Do you believe that will prove important?"

"Extremely, I suspect.  Come now, let's go join the others."

The lobby of the office proves quite a crowded place.  The elder Reeds are nowhere in evidence, but Hermes the Third is deep in conversation with Arthur and Molly.  Tonks seems to be engaged in some sort of argument with a large mirror hanging over a small bookcase.  Arthur especially seems very animated by whatever the subject of his conversation is, and Molly is watching him fondly as he gesticulates to make his point.

I point the scene out to Dumbledore as we skirt the edge of the room.

"Arthur misses Percy terribly," Albus says quietly.  "He was more hurt by that breach than he lets anyone know."

That is a point I had not considered, but now that he mentions it, I see the resemblance clearly.  Hermes is very like Percy.  No, Hermes is Percy as he _should _have been (although as far as I know, Percy is determinedly heterosexual).  The solicitor's fussy kindness and gentle eccentricity must awaken deep and painful memories for Arthur.  But somehow Hermes managed to balance ambition with loyalty, anger with compassion, competence with insight.  What formula succeeded for him that failed for Percy?

Hermes sees us and walks over, smiling.  "Have you finished with the papers, Remus?"

"Yes, thank you, Hermes."  I hand him the documents.

"Very good.  You will have access to the funds and property immediately."

"Okay.  Where is Harry?"

"He and his friends are in my office, I think.  Oh, here they come!"  The four teens come boiling out of the solicitor's private chambers, holding signed documents.  Harry's pile of parchments is so thick it takes two hands to carry.  Hermes bustles over and takes them busily.

As Hermes gathers the documents, Ginny steps toward him hesitantly.  "Mr. Reed?"

"Yes, Miss Weasley?"

"Thank you for letting us look at your phials." She smiles at him a little sadly.  "They're very nice."

"Why thank you, young lady!" Hermes positively beams.  "Very few people care about that type of thing."

"Here," she says, extending a square of cardboard, "it's an invitation to the Grand Opening of a shop my brothers are opening in Diagon Alley."

"I've heard!  Thank you, I will try to stop by!"

I'm not at all sure Ginny has done Hermes a favor, but I can't resist giving her an approving grin as her gaze catches mine.  Molly walks up to her and bestows a silent hug.

I stroll up and put my hand on Harry's shoulder.  "Are you ready to go, Harry?"

"I think so," he says tiredly.

"We'll see you tomorrow, mate!" Ron exclaims brightly.

"Yes, Harry.  Tomorrow." Hermione is much more subdued, and the glance she shoots Harry and Ron seems fraught with meaning.  For a moment the three of them exchange that uncanny unspoken communication they share.  Then Hermione comes forward and gives Harry a hug while Ron claps him on the back.  Ginny waits until last, and gives him a firm embrace, whispering something in his ear.  Is it my imagination, or does Harry blush slightly?

"Problems, Harry?" I ask as we walk into the outer hall.

"What?  Oh, not really.  Ron and Hermione are just at each other again.  It's enough drive you mad, the two of them!"

"I can imagine!" I allow.  I pull out the portkey.  "Tonks will be going back to the Headquarters.  Oh, we forgot to ask!"

"Ask what?"

"Can we still use the house?" I grin at Harry's surprised expression.

"Errr, sure."

"Good.  I'd hate to have to move furniture right now!"

A moment later we materialize behind Number Four Privet Drive.  With a weary sigh, Harry fishes out a set of keys and lets us into the house.

"Harry Potter and Professor Loopy!" Dobby exclaims as we enter the kitchen.  He is in the middle of cleaning.  The kitchen was sparkling already, but you would never know it by the energy with which he is scrubbing the floor.

"Hello, Dobby," Harry says, "You don't have to do that."

"Oh yes I do, Harry Potter sir!  Dobby must clean for Harry Potter!  Dobby has finished with the upstairs."

Harry just shakes his head, obviously recognizing a losing argument when he sees one.  "Thank you, Dobby."

"Harry Potter is very welcome!"

We walk into the living room.  Harry is reeling on his feet.  

"Why don't you go on up to bed, Harry?  Take a shower and get some sleep.  I'm sure Ron and Hermione will be here early in the morning.  Alastor is coming as well."

"Professor Moody?"  Harry rubs his back and frowns.

"Alastor, Harry.  He will be spending the day with us."

"Oh."  The frown deepens.

"I thought you liked Mad Eye, Harry," I say half-laughing.  In truth, Moody is an acquired taste.

"I do," he hastens to say.  "I was just surprised."

"It's okay, Harry.  All these plans are coming together on the spur of the moment."  As a matter of fact, I hope that Albus is making arrangements for Hermione and Ron to come here in the morning.

"I think I will go to bed."

"Don't forget your Occlumency."

"I won't."  Harry trudges up the stairs. He pauses halfway up and turns to give me a little smile.  "Good night, Moony."

"Good night."

Dobby has left my bag on the living room table.  I settle down on the sofa and withdraw the letters I have not yet had a chance to read.

The note from Hagrid is cheery and bluff, not surprising considering its author.  He tells me that Madame Maxime is recovering nicely and that he expects to return to Hogwarts soon.  He also asks that I pass the note along to Harry.  I set it aside to let Harry read it in the morning.

The letter from Flitwick is thick.  I slit it open and withdraw several sheets of parchment.  A brief note is inscribed on Ravenclaw stationary atop the stack of pages.

_Professor Lupin,_

_I write to you after consultation with Professor McGonagall.  She tells me you are aware of young Mr. Potter's activities this past year.  I am speaking of the Defense Association.  Several of my Ravenclaws were members – including, I am sorry to say, Marietta Edgecombe, who betrayed them._

_Enclosed are letters from two Ravenclaw parents, expressing their appreciation for the skills their children have learned in Defense this year.  They quite correctly attribute this to Mr. Potter's tutelage, rather than the teaching of Dolores Umbridge.  I am aware that you share both personal and professional ties with Mr. Potter, and thought you would be gratified to see the success of one of your former pupils._

_I understand that you are in close contact with Mr. Potter, and ask that you pass these letters on to him at your convenience.  I also understand that Mr. Potter has a role to play in the events to come.  Albus holds his cards tightly, but we Ravenclaws are quite talented at assembling clues and hints.  Please assure Harry that in the dark days ahead I will join with Albus and Minerva to bring him what help and support I can._

_Yours truly,_

_Filius Flitwick_

I smile broadly.  Dear, gentle, funny Flitwick!  Many would find his offer of aid laughable, but I do not.  I remember his wrath so long ago, and know that fire that burns within him.  Voldemort has quite an enemy in the Head of Ravenclaw, whether he knows it or not.

The letters are just as Flitwick has described them.  Both are glowing testaments to wondrous progress made by fifth year Ravenclaws in the area of Defense.  I feel my heart expand with pride, growing so enormous within my chest that I think it will burst from my ribs.

I take up the last letter, the one from McGonagall, and open it.  As is her wont, it is brief and to the point.

_Remus,_

_I wish to once again express my condolences in this difficult time.  I have enclosed something that may be of help to you.  I believe that, given your family background, you would find this information useful.  I also have reason to believe that it will bring you enjoyment._

_Minerva McGonagall_

I look at the small piece of parchment she has enclosed.  The words written on it are – interesting indeed.

I slowly gather all the letters together and replace them in my bag.  "Dobby," I call.

"Yes," he cries, appearing in front of me.

"We will probably not be needing you for the rest of the evening.  Feel free to do – whatever you do when we do not need you."

"Yes, Professor Loopy.  Dobby will be scrubbing the kitchen."

"Very well."

To my surprise, Dobby does not disappear immediately.  Instead he stands awkwardly, a worried look on his face.

"Yes, Dobby?"

"Professor Loopy, how did Harry Potter get hurt?"  He looks like he is going to burst into tears.

"We aren't sure, Dobby."

"Please tell Dobby, Professor Loopy!  Dobby has to know so he can help Harry Potter!" He is wringing his hands so hard I'm afraid he'll break his wrist.

With a sigh I motion him to come closer.  "Well, Dobby," I say in a low voice, "we aren't sure, but we think it might be that his mind is causing it.  He feels guilty and hurt and this is the way it's coming out.  Do you understand?"

"No, Professor Loopy," Dobby says flatly.  "Oh, Dobby understands what you are saying, but he does not understand you."

"What?"  Criticized by a house elf?  And I haven't even _done_ anything!

"You wizards," he explains.  "You see, for us, to be and to do and to think is – well, it is all the same.  You wizards make everything so messy.  Is why you need house elves, Dobby thinks."

I ponder this for a moment.  What a fascinating piece of information!  I wonder what Hermione Granger would make of it?  "It may be why we need you, Dobby."

He still stands, wringing his hands.  "Yes," he says softly, "for us to be and to do and to think is the same.  That is the problem."

"What problem, Dobby?"

"Dobby did not want to tell Harry Potter, he is so unhappy already," Dobby really does seem like he will cry any second, "but he will find out very soon.  It is filthy Kreacher!"

"Kreacher?  What about him?"

"Master Sirius, he left the house to Harry Potter, didn't he?" Dobby's ears twitch.

"Yes."

"Dobby was afraid of that.  Kreacher said it was so."

"How would he know?" My gums suddenly feel like they are burning.

"His bonding is tied to the house.  He said he felt it pass – pass to Harry Potter."

"Oh, God, no."  The salty taste of blood fills my mouth.

"Yes, Professor Loopy.  He felt it, and he laughed."

"When?"

"Many days ago.  Dobby was hoping he was wrong."

"No, he wasn't.  What a mess!"

"Kreacher hates Harry Potter, and Kreacher hates himself.  Kreacher will act."  Dobby's ears droop like sails in a dead calm.

"How?"

"Kreacher will ask Harry Potter to punish him.  Kreacher will ask Harry Potter to kill him."

"Oh, no."  Horror wells in my stomach.

Dobby nods sadly.  "Yes.  He knows it will destroy good Harry Potter.  He wants Harry Potter to be twisted like _him_, like _them_."  He sighs.  "Dobby will do it, if Harry Potter wants.  Harry Potter _must not_ do it himself."

I put my head in my hands and groan.  "Is there anything we can do, Dobby?"

"Maybe.  Dobby will ask around.  Please do not tell Harry Potter yet, Professor Loopy.  Give Dobby some time.  But Dobby thought you should know."

"Yes.  Yes, I should.  Thank you, Dobby."

"You are welcome, Professor Loopy."  He vanishes with a crack.

I walk wearily upstairs and make my way to the bathroom. I lean heavily over the sink, feeling all the weariness of this horrid day settling on my shoulders like a set of heavy chains.  Gingerly, trying not to aggravate my aching back, I toe off my shoes  
and socks, then gently slip my shirt over my head. I run some cold water in the basin and splash it on my face and torso, where it runs in rivulets through my forest of chest hair (I am a werewolf, after all). With one finger I rub my aching gums and spit, not surprised  
to see bloody fluid land on the tile.  
  
"Oh, Padfoot," I think, "Why did you have to leave us now?" I squeeze my eyes shut against the hot tears and groan.  
  
Then I hear the whimper. It is soft and low and nearly not a sound at all. But I have a wolf's ears, and it is clear enough to me. It is the soft, smothered whine of pain escaping through tightly pressed lips.  
  
I can move very quickly and silently when I have to. In a few heartbeats I have crossed to Harry's bedroom and opened the door.  He is huddled under the covers, shuddering. I nearly bound across the room and scramble onto the empty side of the bed, every instinct  
screaming to reach Harry as quickly as possible.  
  
A red flower is spreading under the covers, which I wrench back with one convulsion of my arms. Streams of blood are gushing from Harry's hand, and he lets out the soft, nearly inaudible whine again.  
  
With a choked sob I reach out and cradle his hand in mine. I know already what I will see. Etched in crimson, a gleaming insult against his skin, I MUST NOT TELL LIES.  
  
Pulling his poor, wounded hand to my chest, I lean over, driven now by protective instincts more canine than human. Tears running freely down my face, I nuzzle his cheek, gently scraping my teeth along his jaw. My mind is spinning away, overthrown by love and horror and a kind of fierce softness.  
  
Mustering my will, I force the wolf down and make myself form words. "Wake up, puppy. Oh, God. Wake up for Moony."

Harry stirs wearily and mumbles.  I look over to the nightstand and see that the bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion has not been opened. "Wake up, Puppy," I say softly.

With a groan he sits up.  "What?  Moony?"

"Your hand, Puppy."

Harry draws his hand away from me and looks at it blearily.  Slowly his eyes widen with horror.  "What?"

"Were you dreaming, Harry?"

He looks at me, his eyes filled with fear and confusion.  "Yes, but I don't remember..."

I get up off the bed and pad over to the dresser where Madam Pomfrey left the jar of healing salve.  Bringing it back over to where Harry is sitting up, looking more confused by the second, I resume my seat on the bed and dip my fingers into the jar.  "Here, let me, Harry."

I take his hand again, and slowly smear the salve over his wounded skin.  The cuts close rapidly.  I slowly put the jar down and continue to caress his hand.  "Oh, Harry," I say softly.

"Moony, I.... I don't remember."

"I know, Puppy."  His pajama top is smeared with blood.  I help him unfasten the buttons and remove it.  His torso is painfully thin and heaves as he gasps for air.

I look at him silently for a moment, then reach out for his hand again.  Suddenly he jerks back, his eyes clouded.  

"What's wrong, Harry?"

"You don't have to, Moony," he says quietly.

"I don't have to what, Harry?"

"You don't have to... carry me."  He drops his gaze to the bed.  "I understand."

"What Harry?"  Sick fear and sorrow is exploding in my chest.  "What do you mean?"

"I know that Sirius saddled you with me.  Leave now."  He looks up, and his eyes are cold.

"Sirius didn't...."

"Yes, he did, Moony.  You don't know what he did to you.  He didn't know what he was doing to you."

"Harry...."

He turns his back on me.  His should are so thin, his clavicles standing out in sharp ridges.  "Go, Moony.  I don't want you to...  just go.  You don't have to stay."

I sigh deeply.  This isn't going to be pretty.  _A strong wolf_.  Whatever you say, Sirius.

"Harry, I know what you are thinking."

He snorts angrily.  "You and Dumbledore.  I'm glad you're such a good Legilimens, Remus."

"Harry," I take a deep breath, "Albus told us."

He stops breathing.  His shoulders become utterly still.  Then he turns around, his face a visage of shock.  "He what?"  His voice is a whisper.

"He told us about the prophecy."

"He had no right," Harry says.  "HE HAD NO RIGHT!!"  Harry comes to his feet, his face and bare chest flushing scarlet.  His fists clench convulsively.

"He thought there had been too many secrets," I sigh.

His eyes are filled with betrayal and pain.  "Too many secrets?" he hisses.  

"Yes."

"Well, then you know." He clenches his teeth.  "Now you can leave."

"No, Harry."

"I don't need your pity, Remus," he says, his teeth still clenched.  "I DON'T WANT YOUR PITY!"

"I'm not staying because of pity, Harry."

"No?" His voice is disbelieving.  I don't suppose I can blame him. "Why else?"

_Because I love you, you teenage jackass._  Somehow, I don't think that would be the best thing to say.

"Harry," I say, "I'm staying because," I swallow hard, "Because I'm thirty-four years old and I'm an old man."  I lean forward, fixing his eyes with mine.  "I'm staying because I'm torn to pieces inside, and nothing can heal the wounds.  I'm staying because Padfoot and James and Lily are all gone, and you and I are left, and I miss them all so much – so very much..." and then I'm crying, I'm crying and sobbing and heaving and I don't give a damn anymore.

_Well, I made a right hash of that.  I'm sorry, Padfoot._  Harry will turn away from me, and I will die of the pain inside, and Sirius and Lily will be waiting on the other side to eat my soul for failing the most important task I ever undertook.

And then I feel soft fingertips on my face.  I look up, and realize that Harry has scooted close and is gently stroking away my tears with his fingers.  And his own cheeks are wet.

"Oh, God," I groan, and reaching out I pull him against me in a tight hug.

Time stops then.  My mind fades before the intensity of the feelings and instincts that well up.  The warmth of his skin against mine, the overwhelming smell of him in my nostrils, all have overthrown me.  I smell the poison still, but the other smell, the deeper smell, is stronger in my mind, in my soul.  The smell of Harry.

"Oh, Puppy," I moan, burying my face in his hair.  I rock him back and forth as we sob.  He shudders in my arms, and I desperately nuzzle his hair and ears and cheeks, pressing gentle kisses onto his scalp and skin.

Slowly, slowly, our crying lessens.  I gently caress his back and shoulders, continuing my nuzzling and kissing.  My mind is stronger now, but still I gently catch his ears in my teeth, worrying them lovingly.  Bending down I nuzzle and chew his shoulders, continuing to growl praise.  "Sweet Puppy.  Wonderful, beautiful, brave, Puppy."  The feel of my wonderful cub, my babe, my child cuddled against me, his warm skin on my chest, his taste on my lips, his smell in my nostrils, our breath mingling – I feel a joy welling within me that is pure and wild and sweet beyond the ability of poor human sensation to encompass.

Finally we reach the end of our tears.  I continue to rock him, pressing my nose and mouth into his fragrant hair.  He gradually relaxes against me, making sounds of contentment.

"Moony," he finally says sleepily, "You're really hairy, you know that?"

"Yeah, Puppy," I growl, "I'm a werewolf, you know."

"Mmmm," he moans, snuggling in my arms.  His left hand accidentally moves down my side and pauses when he encounters a mass of scar tissue.  Opening his eyes, he looks down at my abdomen, which is disfigured with slashing scars.  "Is that....?"

"Yes, Harry," I say, "That's the way I got infected."

"Oh."  He looks up at me, and I see that his eyes are filled with tears again.

"Shhhh, Pup," I say gently. "We both have scars, don't we?" I stroke a white mark above his right elbow. "What's this?"

"That's where Wormtail stabbed me – and the basilisk bit me." He shrugs, as if it is nothing.  "This is the important one," he points to his forehead.

"No," I say softly, "This is the terrible one." I press my lips against his scarred forehead.  He gasps for a moment, then relaxes again.

I let my hands drift down his torso in a comforting caress.  He giggles as my fingers stroke across his ribcage.

"What's this?" I ask archly.  "It seems someone is ticklish!"  I dig my fingertips into his sides.

"Ho, ho, no, Moony," he chuckles.

Well, that I really can't resist.  With a soft chuckle of my own, I deftly flip him down onto the bed and straddle him.  Catching his wrists in my left hand, I gently force his arms up above his head.  With my right hand I proceed to tease his ribs and stomach, darting upwards to flutter my fingers in his sensitive armpits.  He dissolves into an apoplexy of laughter.

"Moony, ho, ha, ha, hee, hee, plea..., hee, hee, ho, nooooo, ho, ho, ha, please, hahahaha!"  Tears roll down his cheeks again, this time from laughter.  Finally he begins to cough and I stop instantly, letting him catch his breath.

Leaning forward I gently kiss him on the nose.  "Shush, now, baby boy."  

"No more, Moony, please!" he grins up at me as he begs.

"No," I whisper, stroking his cheek, "I think the baby boy has been sufficiently tickled for one night."

I flop down on the bed beside Harry and draw him against me, his back to my chest, spooning together.

"Do werewolves always sleep this close together?" he asks sleepily.

"Yes," I answer.  "Except usually in the nude."

"Nude?"

"Well, wolves don't wear clothes, you know." I press a kiss into his hair.

"Errr, I don't have to do that, do I?"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Puppy."

"Moonywolf," he says quietly, letting his head fall back against my torso.

"Yes."  My mind is spinning away again.  I draw my body instinctively into a protective curl, wrapping it around my puppy.  Deep growls begin to emanate from my chest, creating a deep thrumming to sooth the sweet cub in my arms.

"That's nice," Harry murmurs.

I gently nuzzle his ear.  "I love you, Puppy," I whisper.

He looks up at me, his eyes now filled with happiness and hope and a desperate fragility.  

"Moonywolf loves his puppy," I repeat, smiling.

After a long moment, he closes his eyes and relaxes trustingly against me.  And with a joy that fills my heart and mind like blinding light, I rock my cub to sleep.


	4. Day of Defiance

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating – PG13

Disclaimer – Main characters and Situations owned by J.K. Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS II: PSALM OF THE WOLF

Chapter Four: Day of Defiance

Saturday, 6 June, 1996

_0702 GMT_

I usually wake up quickly.  It is a useful talent to have when you are a member of the Order.  Getting caught, flat-footed and groggy, by a squad of Death Eaters is not a very good way to start the day.  Therefore I come awake in an instant when I sense Harry stirring beside me.

Harry does not have the same skill of swift waking, so I amuse myself by watching as he gradually swims his way out of sleep.  He opens his eyes slowly and lazily, blinking several times, and then stretching luxuriously against my chest.  Looking up at me he gives a gentle smile.  "Morning, Moony."

"Morning, pup.  We had better get started.  Ron and Hermione will be here early."

"Okay."  He hops out of bed and digs out a towel and some fresh boxer shorts.  "I'll take a shower first."

"Sounds good."  I stretch out on the bed after he leaves, staring at the ceiling and wondering what I've gotten myself into.  What happened last night was just what I had feared.  We are bonded now, Harry and I, sealed in the unbreakable embrace of the pack.  And Harry does not understand what has happened.

I close my eyes and groan.  I should have been more explicit with Dumbledore, should have held on to my reservations.  But it is too late now, much too late.  The path back is blocked by my own nature – a nature I can no more change than I can prevent the rising of the moon.

And the worst thing is that I don't _want_ to go back.  I haven't felt so vital, so active, so _needed, _in years – not at Hogwarts, not with the Order, certainly not with any of the activities I've pursued trying to scrape together a few sickles here and there.  Harry doesn't realize what I've done to him, and deep inside a wild, powerful, frightening thing doesn't care.

I get up from the bed and wander over to Harry's desk.  It is piled high with DADA texts and Charms instructions.  _Not good, not good at all.  _Harry needs to relax and learn to separate himself from the troubles of the world, not immerse himself in them.

Sirius' letter to Harry is sitting on the edge of the desk, folded.  My fingers twitch with the desire to pick it up and see what my old friend had to say to my puppy.  But the thought of what Harry's face would look like if he learned of such a betrayal squelches the desire almost instantly.  Instead I pick up a small stack of career pamphlets and go back to sit on the bed, my legs stretched out on the mattress and my back propped up against the pillows.

After several minutes Harry comes back, drying his hair with a towel.  Grinning at me, he proceeds to pull on a pair of jeans, and fasten a watch around his wrist. Then he sits on the bed.  

"How are you doing, Harry?" I ask softly.

He shrugs, looking down at the floor.  I put down the pamphlets and reach over to caress his back.  He is so very thin; the bones of his spin are sharp and ridged beneath my palm.

"Are you looking forward to seeing your friends?" I continue, concerned as I note the flush in his cheeks and the heat under my hand.  He finished his course of medicines yesterday.  This low fever could be residual effects of the medications.  And it could be the effects of poison.

"Yeah," he says, and his eyes brighten, almost sparkling.  "It's just, well – it's just all a lot to get used to."

"I know," I say softly.  "But it will get better with time.  And we are here to help you.  Especially me."

He looks up, giving me a strangely shy glance.

"Yes, Harry?"

He blushes, then looks at the floor and mutters something.

"What's that, pup?" I ask gently.

"Nothing," he mumbles a little louder.  Then, "Well, I was... forget it."  He blushes even deeper.

Finally, he sighs deeply and turns his face to me.  His eyes are bright and his mouth determined, but there is something about his features, something underneath the brave Gryffindor expression that screams of desperation and fear.  Maybe it is the way his jaw seems to tremble just slightly, or the tightly stretched skin at the corners of his eyes, or the flaring of his nostrils like a panicked animal, or all of these things.  _Hermione was right_, I think, remembering what she had said at the twins' shop a couple of days ago.  _Harry is like a diamond -- hard and bright and strangely brittle.  And he's cracked through and through, heart and soul and mind._

I wait for a moment to see if he will say anything.  He just looks down again, obviously trying _not_ to say something.  I sigh and shake my head just a bit, knowing he can't see.  This is going to be hard to get used to.  "Harry," I say firmly.

He meets my eyes finally.  I grin at him and open my arms.  He turns a deep scarlet, but nevertheless crawls over and lays his cheek against my chest.  I wrap my arms around him firmly and press a kiss into his hair, letting the smell of him overwhelm my senses once again.  

"Mmmm," he sighs softly, obviously enjoying the cuddle he was too proud to ask for.  

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Yeah," he says softly, his tone still embarrassed.

"Don't ever be ashamed to need this, Harry," I say urgently.  This is something Harry needs to understand, _must_ understand.  "I know it's hard.  It's hard for everybody, sometimes, and you've had a lot more difficult life than most people your age."  When I think of everything my pup has been through, I want to gnash my teeth.  Instead I kiss his scalp once again.  "But we all need affection, Harry.  We all need love.  And I will _never_ deny you this."

He stiffens against me, his breath growing harsher.  "But..."

"No, Harry," I say firmly.  I grasp his chin and force his head up so that he has to look into my eyes.  "I will _never_ deny you this.  I will _never _deny you love."

His expression is one of stunned disbelief.  It's like I've told him that he can have the ocean for his swimming pool and the sun for his night light.  Deep in my heart I curse the Dursleys and Snape and Voldemort and the Malfoys and Albus and everybody else who has had a hand in convincing Harry that he is unworthy of love.  I curse them all to Hell.

Harry sighs softly again and turns so he is spooned against me, his back to my chest, his head under my chin.  I fold my forearms over his chest and rest my hands on his shoulders.  

"I was looking at your career pamphlets," I say softly, "I hope you don't mind."

"Nope," he sighs.  "Just stuff left over from the school year."

"Uh-huh."  I gently tickle under his jaw with my index finger, making him giggle and twist his head in an effort to evade the teasing.  "And when will you start working on this little problem, hmm?  The Auror Office will have to partner you with Tonks.  Clumsy and Ticklish!"

"Quit, Moony!" He reaches up, still giggling, and catches my hand.  I laugh gently and give his hand a squeeze.  Then my eyes fall on the watch he is wearing and my heart freezes.  It is a cheap Muggle contraption with a bright red plastic band.  The face sports a fat mouse in red overalls and white gloves.  His hands move to tell the time.

"Where did you get that, Harry?"

"Hmm?  Oh, the watch?  Petunia gave it to me, would you believe?  I think she found it in the mail."

I swallow hard.  Harry feels me tense and looks up, his expression suddenly worried.

"What is it, Moony?"

I sigh heavily and consider lying.  But lies were at the root of this terrible year, and I don't have the heart to continue that destructive tradition.  "I suspect that came from Peter, Harry."

"Peter?" He sits up and stares at me.

"Yeah.  Don't worry!" I exclaim as he starts tearing off the watch, "It would have tripped the wards if it had any harmful spells on it."

Harry replies with a blistering obscenity and hurls the colorful timepiece across the room.  It cracks hard against the edge of his desk and falls to the floor. "How?" he asks, "What...?"

I slide my arms around Harry's torso again and draw him back into a cuddle, gently pressing a kiss against the nape of his neck.  "We all had pet names for you, Puppy."

"Who?"

"When you were little.  Sirius and I called you Puppy.  Peter called you Mouse, or sometimes Mickey."

He shudders and looks at me in disbelief.  "Peter?  Did he – did he visit a lot?"

I _really_ wish I could bring myself to lie.  But those sparkling green eyes have me transfixed.  "Yes, Pup.  He was your favorite babysitter."

"My ... favorite?" Harry's voice is so low it's barely a sound at all.

"Yes.  You used to love it when he would change into his animagus form and push toys around."

Harry closes his eyes and presses his cheek against my breastbone.  His breath is hitching a little, but no more tears come.  I hug him fiercely, my heart aching for his pain.

"Did he love me?" Harry asks quietly.  "Sirius, I mean.  Do you think he really wanted me?"  His voice is tight with worry and pain.  I sense that if I were to say "No" he would start screaming, or else retreat into an icy solitude that would rival a cell in Azkaban.

Luckily there is no need for that.  "Oh, Harry," I whisper fiercely, "he loved you SO much!"

"Did he ever, uhm, talk about me?"  Harry burrows his head against my skin in embarrassment, his small fingers reflexively curling in my chest hair.

"Only every day, Puppy.  ALL day, some days.  To tell you the truth, it got kind of boring!"

Harry chuckles a bit.  I chuckle back and reward him with a flurry of caresses.

"What did he say?"

A thick obstruction appears in my throat, but I force myself to speak anyway.  "He talked about how much you meant to him, Puppy.  He talked about how you were the only good thing in his life and," I swallow hard, "and how much he wanted to be with you."

Harry starts crying again, silently.  I hold him for a while, and then gently force his chin up so I can nuzzle his tear-streaked face.  "Shhh, Pup, he wouldn't want you to cry like this!"

"I'm so sorry, Moony." Harry's voice breaks and his shoulders shake with emotion.

"Why, Puppy?"

"I killed him, Moony," Harry says heavily.  "He loved me, and I killed him."

"Harry, no!" I don't yell, but I fear I do growl a bit.  I keep his head firmly elevated so he has to look into my eyes – eyes I now try to fill with warmth and love and concern.  "Bellatrix killed him!  Voldemort killed him!  Even Kreacher..." I break off, remembering Dobby's warning.  "YOU were a victim, Harry."

"But if I...."

"Harry you loved him."  I press my lips against his scar, and then look him in the eye from only a few inches away.  "Voldemort used that, the bastard!  But what you were, what you _are_, is good and sweet and kind and loving.  You are everything Riddle despises.  And that's why he's doomed."

I hold Harry for several minutes longer, and then finally, reluctantly, draw back my arms.  "I guess we had better get ready."

"Yeah," Harry says, "like you said, they'll be here any time."

I grab a towel and some clean clothes and quickly go through my morning routine.  I am relaxed now, and neither my gums nor my back nor my joints are giving me any trouble.  After getting dressed, I hurry downstairs.  Harry has donned sneakers and a tee shirt, and is sitting in what I suspect is Vernon Dursley's personal chair.  A book bag is balanced on his knees.

"Hermione wanted to see some of the texts I've been using," he explains as I look at the bag with a quizzical glance.  "When she found out Tonks had lent me some of the Auror manuals, she wouldn't shut up about it."

"I can believe that!" I say forcefully.  "I think she's probably read the entire Hogwarts library by now!"

"Not all of it," Harry corrects.  "Just the part she can get to." 

Harry looks at the floor, chewing his lower lip.  Sadness and worry are written heavy on his features.

"I know it's hard, Harry," I say softly.

"Moony, I...." he glances up, his eyes shuttered.

"Yes?"

The doorbell sounds loudly, cutting off our conversation.  Harry shoves the bookbag onto the floor between the chair and sofa and comes to his feet.  I give him a thumbs-up and go to open the door.

Ron and Hermione are standing on the front step, with Arthur Weasley behind them in his muggle best. "Hello, Remus," he says brightly as they bustle through the door, "I hope you're well."  His expression is sad and concerned.

"We are doing better," I say softly.

The two teens, for their part, give me scarcely a nod before rocketing across the room.  Hermione grasps Harry in a fierce embrace rather like a wrestling hold while Ron grins and pounds him on the back.

"Glad to hear it," says a familiar, curmudgeonly voice from behind Arthur.  Shouldering the red-haired man aside, Mad Eye Moody steps into the hallway clad in the long coat and bowler he wore to meet Harry at King's Cross station.

"Hello, Alastor."  I motion for both of them to enter, but Arthur shakes his head.

"I wangled a car from the Ministry," he explains, "but I'd better be going."

"Okay." I shake his hand firmly.  "We'll look for you later."  I manage to pack several layers of meaning into that sentence.

He takes his leave somberly, but not before Ron comes forward, his cheeks blushing.  Moody and I make a show of looking away as the teenager awkwardly embraces his father, his eyes full of worry.  _What a world we live in, where a sixteen-year- old has to wait with his best friends while his father and mother and brothers battle murderous wizards._  I fear this is not the last time Ron will see one of his loved ones off to battle, not knowing if they will return.

"Well," Alastor grumps into the silence after Arthur quietly closes the door behind him, "what shall we do?"

The question is answered by a loud crack as Dobby appears.  "Breakfast is ready," he announces, beaming.

"Good," Ron exclaims, "I'm starved."

"Are you ever _not_ hungry, Weasley?" Harry asks good-naturedly.

Ron makes a great show of thinking.  "Nope."

Harry chuckles, Hermione roles her eyes, and I marvel at the bond among the three of them as they make their way to the kitchen, Moody and I following behind.  "I know auror teams that don't coordinate as well as those three," Alastor says softly.

"I don't doubt that," I reply.  For some reason, I feel a thrill of worry dart through my stomach.

Dobby has prepared a wonderful breakfast.  I wonder briefly if he is depleting the Dursley's cupboards, or if he is bringing supplies in from Hogwarts.  Digging into a pile of fluffy eggs, I decide I don't care.  The others likewise tear into the food, and we chew in satisfied silence for a good half-hour.

Finally, after both Harry and Ron have worked their way through three helpings (I can't help but watch proudly as the two of them fight an undeclared battle to see which can stuff down the most pancakes, eggs, and sausages) the three young people rise with the intent of an impromptu chess tournament.  I have no doubt that Ron will emerge the victor, but the happy smile I see on Harry's face at the proposal fills me with satisfaction.

"Well, Remus," Alastor says as the three of them pass into the living room, "here is a way to keep track of things.  I didn't want to say anything in front of them."  He reaches into his coat and produces a small hand mirror.  "Tonks has the mate," he informs me in a low voice, then stomps out to keep watch over the teenagers.

I heft the mirror carefully.  This doubtless works on the same principle as the two-way mirrors James and Sirius used to use at Hogwarts.  Bringing the glass close to my face, I softly utter "Tonks."

The mirror clouds, and then clears to reveal the young auror's face fringed by her trademark bubblegum hair.  "Hi Remus!" she exclaims cheerfully.  "How are the kids doing?"

"The kids," I say dryly, "are fine."  Tonks is a fine one to speak, as she is only about six years older than Harry herself.

"Good.  Nothing suspicious here, so far, unless you count the twins' door prizes."

"Door prizes?"  I can just imagine.

"Yeah.  They've been wrapping 'em up and chuckling all morning."  Her eyes gleam merrily.  "I don't think we'll have a dull day, even if all the Death Eaters stay home!"

"Let's hope all you have to worry about is the Weasley sense of humor!" I say fervently, even as my sour stomach tells me how unlikely that is.  "How is everyone else holding up?"

"Fine, as well as I can tell.  Molly is about to drive us all crazy fussing about, but what else is new?"

"Yes, what else is new?" It's nice to know that some things are constant.  "Just keep Bill from losing his temper and you should be okay."

"He is keyed up," Tonks agreed, "but I think he'll be all right.  He's paired off with Dumbledore, and that man could keep a burning building cool."

"Sometimes," I say, "sometimes."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Tonks is suddenly more somber.  "He has quite the temper himself.  I would have never known it when I was at Hogwarts."

"Yes.  I understand."  We have all learned quite a bit about each other this past year.  Not all of it is comforting.  "Take care, Tonks.  Keep me posted."

"I will.  Talk to you soon, Remus."  The mirror fogs again, and her image fades, leaving me with an intense feeling of emptiness and worry.  Shoving the glass into my robes, I make my way into the living room, trying and failing to keep my mind off what might soon be happening in Diagon Alley.

Surprisingly enough, time passes rather quickly for a while.  Harry and Ron appear lost in their chess duel, while Moody entertains Hermione and me with stories from his days as an auror.  But as ten a.m. – opening time at Weasley Wizard Wheezes – grows nearer, tension begins to build.  A gradual closeness builds up in the air.  Hermione's questions grow gradually more distracted, while Harry and Ron keep glancing up from the chess board, obviously trying not to look like they're observing the clock.  I feel the sourness in my stomach building into outright nausea, while even Moody starts to ramble and grow restless.

I make excuses twice to leave the room and check in with Tonks.  She can tell me nothing, except that a surprisingly large crowd is gathering in preparation for the opening.  I don't know if we should feel surprise or not.  After all, with the shadow of Voldemort looming over the Wizarding World, is it strange that people feel a need to show defiance, to cling desperately to life and joy?  

Just as I conclude the second check-in, I look up to see Harry entering the kitchen.  He approaches me with an oddly tentative step.

"What is it, Harry?" I ask, slipping the mirror quickly into my pocket.

"Moony, I need to tell you...."

"What, pup?" I smile at him lovingly, feeling so very proud of how strong and brave and smart my Harry is.

"I.... Moony this is hard."

"Just say it, Harry."

"I should really be at Diagon Alley," he says firmly.

I sigh sadly, noting that Harry is not meeting my eyes.  "Harry, you don't have to shoulder the pain of the world, or the weight of the war."

"Yes I do, Moony," he answers, quietly and bitterly.  "You know that as well as I do."

"Harry, no."

"Moony, yes.  You know what I'm for."

"What you're for?" I rub the bridge of my nose.  "Harry..."

The door of the kitchen suddenly opens and Ron strides in.  "Hi!  Just wanted to make sure you two were okay!" He grins, but it is a strained expression.  And when he looks at Harry, for a moment I could almost swear they are glaring at each other.

Then Harry smiles back at his friend.  "We were okay before you showed up, Weasley!  Come on, I'll let you beat me at chess."

That sets off indignant spluttering that continues all the way into the living room.  The two boys begin a new round of chess contests, while the rest of us launch into a discussion of how NEWT DADA differs from the lower levels.

Finally, the chess match comes to an end, with a victory by Ron of course.  Moody falls silent as do Hermione and I.  We all shift uncomfortably in our seats, saying nothing.

"I can't stand it!" Harry exclaims, bounding to his feet and sending the chess pieces flying.  They lie on the floor, complaining loudly.

"Harry!" I say, trying to sound soothing, "Calm down!  This is hard on all of us."

"That's right, Potter," Moody growl has a kind undertone, "try to keep yourself together.  Waiting's never easy at times like this."

"I'm about to go barmy too!" Ron says darkly, scooping the chessmen off the carpet. "Can't we go outside for a while?"

"Well, I don't...."

"Let's go out back, Professor," Ron begs, "please?"

I look over to Harry.  To my surprise, he and Ron seem to be glaring at each other again.  Finally Harry sighs and says, "I guess that would be a nice change."

"I suppose it would be all right.  Moody?"

Alastor plainly doesn't like the idea, but nevertheless he shrugs.  "Well, if the three of you can act like sensible human beings, it shouldn't hurt anything."

"Come on!" Ron says excitedly.  He quickly stuffs the chessboard and chessmen back into his pack and makes for the back door.

I turn to find Hermione watching Ron with eyes full of worry.  She and Harry exchange an unreadable look, then move to follow their friend.  Moony and I bring up the rear.

Harry's odd behavior is bothering me greatly.  What is the tension between him and Ron?  Those two are normally as thick as thieves.

Then again, it may just be an overprotective streak coming out.  That is a danger between members of a pack.  You get paranoid about one another's welfare.  I exit into the back yard, shaking my head ruefully.  Harry seems to be all right now.  I watch him and his friends moving into the center of the yard.  He is much to thin.  I can see his left shoulder blade clearly through his tee shirt.  The pressure of his book bag on his right shoulder makes the unburdened scapula stand out all the clearer.

Book bag?  Why is he carrying his book bag?

Panic suddenly flares in my chest.  I open my mouth to shout even as Ron produces a square of white cardboard that I recognize immediately as an invitation to the opening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.  The shout exits my mouth even as the three of them touch the invitation and the portkey activates.

And then they are gone.  My shout dies, cut off abruptly as my throat closes in panic.

"Bloody Hell!" Moody exclaims.  

I look at him, stunned.  My throat clenches so hard I can't breathe.

But Moody's years as an auror were not in vain.  "Get hold of Tonks on the mirror!" he snaps.  I'll meet you in front of Gringott's!" Then he disapparates.

I fumble the mirror out of my robes and hastily call for Tonks.  The image that appears is of a long-haired blond girl about Hermione's age.  "Remus?" she asks.

"Password!" I bark, finally managing to fill my lungs.

"Strawberry surprise," she answers with a flustered expression, "now what's wrong?"

"It's Harry and Hermione and Ron," I exclaim.  "They've used a portkey!"

"A portkey?  Why?  Oh, Merlin!" Her expression shifts to shear horror as the implications sink in.

"Moody is trying to find them now.  I'll apparate over as soon as we're done."

"Hell and damnation!" she hisses.  I have never heard her curse in such a heartfelt vein.  "We HAVE to find them!"

"I know," I agree fervently, "if the Death Eaters appear, they could be in the middle of an all-out war zone."

"Not only that, if Dumbledore finds out, he'll peel us all like onions!  Get over here and find those kids, Remus!"

I had not even considered Dumbledore's reaction, but she is of course correct.  With a string of expletives that even Padfoot would have envied, I disapparate and appear in front of Gringott's.

I find Moody with no trouble.  He is standing on the top step of the bank, his magical eye whirling desperately, his expression sour enough to make an acromatula scuttle away as fast as its hairy legs could move.

"Can you see them, Moody?" I yell, taking the steps three at a time.

"No.  They must be in one of the side lanes."

I curse heartily again, remembering the backpack Harry was carrying.  I have no doubt his invisibility cloak was stuffed deep inside.  The three of them are probably under it, now.  That would not fool Moody's magical eye, but it will play the very Devil with the rest of us.

"Why don't you try to pick up their scent?" Moody growls angrily.

"I'm a werewolf, Alastor, not a werebloodhound."  In truth, the Alley is such a sea of smells I probably wouldn't catch their scent until I was almost on top of them.

Moody matches my flood of epithets.  I tune him out as I scan the Alley fearfully.  As Tonks said, a large crowd has gathered in front of Number 93, awaiting the opening of the doors scheduled to take place in a few minutes.  The rest of the Alley is also buzzing.  Voldemort or no Voldemort, the Weasley twins seem to be good for business.

I hastily review the disposition of forces.  Gringott's is protected by its own security systems, none of them coordinated with either the Order or the Aurors.  Teams of Aurors are atop both the joke shop and the building across the street.   Those on top of the shop are backed up by Sturgis Podmore and Emmaline Vance.  Since neither of them were able to attend the Order's strategy meeting, they have been given the most straightforward tactical assignment.  The Aurors on the roof across the street, who have the best view of the street in front of the joke shop and the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, are supported by Bill Weasley and Dumbledore himself.  Arthur and Molly wait inside the shop to aid the twins in defending their property.  Aurors circulate through the crowd along with agents of Magical Law Enforcement.  McGonagall, Dung Fletcher, and Tonks are also among the crowd disguised in their own particular ways.  Kingsley Shacklebolt is about somewhere, coordinating the efforts of the Order with the forces of the Ministry.

_Harry, where are you_?  I feel like snarling in despair and fear.  Where would he place himself?

_In the midst of the danger, of course_.  I snap my attention to the front of the shop and the gathered crowd.  I would bet a year's supply of Wolfsbane that he and his friends are hidden there, somewhere.  Right where the Deatheater attack will fall the hardest.

Note to self: Ask Albus to borrow Godric Gryffindor's sword.  He might not have had the heart to paddle Harry with it, but when I get my hands on that particular Seeker it's likely to be different story.  If we all get out of this alive the only thing he'll be diving for the next couple of days is a pillow so he can actually sit down.  Or maybe I'll just let Albus keep the sword and deal with this the wolf way – i.e. pick the young man up by the scruff of the neck and shake till his eyes roll and his teeth rattle.

Then of course I'll check myself into St. Mungo's to recover from my coronary.  But first things first.

"Keep looking!" I snap at Moody and spring down the steps, making for the rear of the crowd.  I have no idea what I am going to do once I get there, but I am driven by an imperative I cannot resist.  I dash down the street, uncaring as to how ridiculous I must look, robes blowing in the wind of my passage.

"Professor Lupin!" A bright voice hails me as I skirt the edge of the crowd.  I look around and spot Neville Longbottom waving to me briskly.  He is standing next to his grandmother, with none other than Luna Lovegood at his side.

I skid to a halt and backtrack to the strange trio, noting that Mrs. Longbottom is glaring at me with her lips pursed disapprovingly.  Reaching them I give her a quick and, I fear, not very polite nod.  "Hello Mrs. Longbottom.  How are you Neville? Luna?  Have you seen Harry or Ron or Hermione?"

"No, we haven't," Neville replies, evenly.  Despite my panic, I am impressed by how much more self-controlled and dignified he seems than I remember.  "We just arrived."

"We felt it important to come," Mrs. Longbottom explains.  "One must not let bullies intimidate one."

"No, one must not," I agree dryly.  "Luna, Neville, I hear you are interning at the Aesculapius Foundation this summer."

"We are," Luna says softly, "but they let us have the day off.  Is Harry here to fight the Death Eaters?"

I blink.  "Death Eaters?" I say, sounding remarkably stupid.

"Yes, surely they will show up.  Neville and I have been practicing."

"Have you?" I look at Neville with arched eyebrows.

"Oh, yes Professor," he replies, blushing slightly.  "We were sure Harry would be here."

"Did he owl you about it?" I bark loudly.

"Really, Professor!" Mrs. Longbottom exclaims.

"It's all right, Grandmother," Neville interjects, a little sharply.  _My, he has changed._

"My apologies," I breath.  "It's just that I can't find Harry or his friends..."

"We are his friends, too," Luna observes, a little more sharply than is her wont.

"I know, Luna," I say, forcing down the hot irritation I feel.  "I meant that Hermione and Ron have gone missing, too."

"Oh," she shrugs dreamily, "that's all right then."

"We will keep a look out for Harry and Ron and Hermione, Professor," Neville says.

"Good," I breathe, noticing that he hasn't said what they will do if they find the Gryffindors.  "If you will excuse me," I dodge to the right, not waiting for a reply.

And I find myself face to face with Ginny Weasley.  She gasps, obviously surprised, and attempts to dart into the crowd.   My reflexes are too swift.  I latch onto her wrist and pull her free of the throng.

"Hello, Miss Weasley," I say with as much calm as I can muster, "I'm very surprised to see you here."

"Professor Lupin," she breaths, "I ..."

"Am the recipient of a portkey, if I am not mistaken," I feel a surge of annoyance.  "I am _so_ glad that everyone decided to fill the rest of us in on the plans for this little get together."

"Look, Professor," Ginny tries to pull free, but I hold her firmly, careful not to exert anything like my full strength, "I don't know what you mean."

I sigh heavily.  "Ginny, do you know where Harry is?"

"Harry?  You mean that Harry's here?"  She widens her eyes comically.

"Ginny, you aren't a very good liar.  Now, please..."

"DON'T HURT HER!" 

I half turn in surprise as Neville advances angrily, his face flushed.  

"I have no intention of doing any such thing, Neville." I say softly.

"NEVILLE!" That is his grandmother, looking positively shocked.  At her side Luna is watching us languidly.  Rather, it would be languid for anyone but Luna.  There is a thin crease between her eyebrows, just the ghost of a frown.

"Neville, it's okay," Ginny protests.  

"No it isn't!" he insists, looking stubborn.  "She isn't doing anything wrong!  Let her go!"

"NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!" Mrs. Longbottom is advancing like a ship in full sail.  "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Luna fixes her gaze on a spot midway between Neville and Ginny.  But the crease in her brow deepens slightly, and her gaze isn't quite so far away as it was a moment ago.

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Longbottom," I say, taking great care to keep my voice even.  "Neville, I'm afraid I really must disagree with you."

"As must I." The new voice is familiar and totally chilling.  Taking in breath as one, all four of us turn to see Albus Dumbledore approaching, his mild smile seriously dimmed and his eyes cool.  "Miss Weasley, I do not think that your parents would be at all pleased to find you here."

Ginny's shoulders droop in a picture of abject defeat.  "I don't suppose they would," she mutters.

"Now," I say softly, letting a bit of my annoyance creep into my tone, "where are Harry and Hermione and Ron?"

Albus takes in a hissing breath between his teeth.  I do my best to ignore him and glare at Molly and Arthur's only daughter.

"I don't know," she says tiredly.  "Ron and I had portkeys.  I haven't seen them."

"I take it," Albus says quietly, "that Mr. Potter and Miss Granger and Mr. Ronald Weasley are now present in this vicinity?"

I don't look at him.  I don't have to look at him to know what his expression must be like.  Neville is looking over my shoulder in Albus' direction, and the wide-eyed stare on his face tells me all I need to understand.

"Yes," I say carefully, "they used a portkey to leave Privet Drive several minutes ago.  Evidently they are under Harry's cloak."

"I see."  Albus voice is very, very calm.  "Well, I suppose you can help us look for your missing comrades, Miss Weasley.  You as well, Mr. Longbottom."

There is a soft sigh from the front of the throng.  I look up and see that the doors of the joke shop have opened.  

"I think I must get back to my post," Albus says mildly.  I finally look at him fully.  He appears calm and possessed and cool, all the qualities he usually projects.  But his eyes are stormy – rather like the sky just before a hurricane, in fact.  "Remus, I trust I can leave you in charge of finding our runaways?"

"Yes, Albus.  I will take responsibility for that."  As well as for letting them slip away in the first place, but that goes without saying.

"Very well." He reaches into his robes and produces something small and metallic.  He hands the object to me, saying, "This may prove useful.  I leave you to your task." With a crack he disapparates, but not before fixing me for three long heartbeats with those storm-harbinger eyes.  A dart of pain lances up my spine and my stomach flips over twice in succession.

"Well," I look at Neville and Ginny darkly, "I think we have a job."

"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Longbottom agrees primly.

"Let's get started," Luna says softly.  She smiles and walks up to her friends.  The look she gives Neville is positively beatific.  The one she gives Ginny is ... not.

_Hmm, the foundation doesn't seem to be working those two hard enough._

Looking down at the small object in my hand, I realize I'm holding a muggle cell phone – obviously the mate to the one that Harry carries.  Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of such things – when last I regularly used phones they were wired into the wall.

"I don't suppose any of you know how to work this thing?"

Neville and his grandmother both shake their heads.  Ginny gives me a sorrowful expression and shrugs.

_Purebloods.  How utterly useless.  Where on earth is a muggleborn when you need one?_

"Fine."  I stare down at the small screen and tiny buttons helplessly.  "Now what?"

I look out over the crowd and realize that it has ebbed markedly from our position.  There is a shout from somewhere near the shop and bright lights flare, immediately resolving into red pinwheels and dancing blue dragons.  Somebody has just opened their door prize.

I tentatively poke at the buttons.  All I get are a series of beeps.  Frustration and annoyance wells inside of my chest, along with something else.  A sharp thrill spreads upwards from my diaphragm, making a tingling cloud around my heart.  Prickling blossoms on my neck and I feel my nape hairs grow stiff.  Danger is coming.  It hasn't arrived yet, but it is very close.  And it is approaching fast.

"Professor," Ginny tugs at my elbow, "over there!"

I follow her pointing finger, half expecting to see dark-robed figures emerging from a side alley.  Instead a thin, brown haired figure is trotting toward us, waving in a curiously tentative manner.  He looks to be Harry's age, and as he comes closer I see his face is very familiar.  Obviously a Hogwarts student.  But who?  I grimace behind a hastily raised hand.  Now is not the time for student-teacher reunions.

"Malone!" Neville exclaims in surprise.

"Who?" I ask in a half whisper.

"Adrian Malone," Neville says softly, "my year at Hogwarts.  He's in Slytherin.  He isn't one of the bad ones, though."

Of course.  Now I remember the silent, retiring Slytherin in Harry's year.  As I recall I scarcely knew him to string more than two sentences together at any given time.  Mostly he sat in the back of the class, watching everything with nervous, haunted eyes.

"Professor Lupin!" Malone says in his strangely quiet voice, holding out his hand.  "I was hoping you would be here."

"Hello, Mr. Malone," I say, grasping his hand and trying not to frown.  

"Ginny, Neville," he says, giving each of them a kind of half-grimace.

"My grandmother," Neville mutters.  "Grandmother, Adrian Malone."

"Pleased to meet you young man," Mrs. Longbottom says politely.

"And you, ma'am," he says politely.  

"I didn't expect to see you, Adrian," Neville says carefully, giving the Slytherin a tentative smile.

"Why not?" Malone asks softly.  If I'm not mistaken, his expression is a little hurt.

"Well, this isn't ..." Neville's voice trails off awkwardly.

"A Slytherin event?" Malone definitely looks hurt.  "Do you think a Slytherin can't enjoy a joke shop?"

"Sorry, Adrian," Neville hangs his head.

"Don't feel bad, Adrian!" Ginny interjects suddenly.  "We just didn't expect to see you, that's all.

"I know," the thin boy looks very sad but gives a friendly enough shrug.  "We aren't so different, you know."

"Uhm," Ginny looks at me for help, but I can only give her a shrug of my own.  

Luna, on the other hand, looks at the Slytherin as if seeing him for the first time.  "Professor Flitwick always points out how similar the houses are."  

"_Brave, loyal, witty, wise_," Adrian suddenly exclaims in a singsong, "_All their own ambitions prize!_"

Neville looks startled, then laughs.  Ginny and I both smile.  Evidently the Slytherins have their mottos like the other Houses.  Luna, of course, looks totally composed, as if she had not heard a word Adrian just said.

"Meaning Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws can be ambitious, too?" Ginny asks.  Of course she would know, with a brother like Percy.

"I guess.  Or that we can be brave, loyal, witty, and wise."

"Uhhh," Neville looks embarrassed again.

"Although not all of us," Adrian says, sadly.  "Anyway, I was hoping to talk to you, Professor.  Do you have a minute?"

He looks so hopeful I feel my heart sinking.  "I'm afraid not, Adrian, we are in rather a crisis, right now."

"Oh."  He looks like he's been kicked.

"I would love to talk to you, at some point, though!"  That's something of a lie.  I don't remember him well enough to love to talk to him.  But he looks so disappointed the words just come out.  "Why don't I send you an owl?"

He brightens like the sun rising.  "Can I?  It's really important!"

"Of course."

"Are you having trouble with your phone?" he asks, pointing to the device in my hand.

"Oh, errr, no.  I just don't know how to use it."

"Oh, let me.  What number do you want to call?"  He reaches out and grabs the phone.

"Uh, I don't know."

"Has it been called on this phone?"

"Uh, yes."

"Simple.  We'll call up the memory function."  His fingers dance over the keys, eliciting a cascade of beeps.  "There.  Only one number called?  I guess that must be it."

"It must be."

"OK.  It's ready now.  Just hit the SEND button."  He hands the phone back and leans forward.  "My mother is a regional dealer for this kind of thing," he confesses softly.

My eyes widen.  A half-blood Slytherin?  No wonder he has that sad expression all the time!

"Thank you, Adrian."

"My pleasure.  I'll look forward to your owl!"  With a final sad smile, he walks away, disappearing into the midst of the crowd.

"Now," I say softly, "I wonder what that was about?"

"I don't know," Ginny says softly, "I don't know much about Malone."

"Me neither," Luna interjects.

Neville agrees quickly.  "Neither do I.  He can see the Thestrals, though."

"Can he?"

"Yeah.  He saw them in Hagrid's class."

Questions on top of questions.  With a weary sigh I press the "SEND" button on the cell phone.  Closing my eyes, I concentrate on catching any sound like a muggle phone ringing.

So many sounds – voices, shoes on the pavement, the whisper of robes.  _Wait, what is that?  _Something halfway between a ring and a buzz.  Distant and muffled – even my exceptional hearing barely picks it up.  And of course it's coming from the direction of the joke shop.

"I think they are close to the shop entrance," I tell my reluctant colleagues.  "Neville, if you and Luna and Mrs. Longbottom would circle to the left, Miss Weasley and I will circle to the right.  I'll keep dialing, so listen for a phone.  Do you know what that sounds like?"

All of the young people nod, Luna looking exceptionally pleased.  Mrs. Longbottom looks doubtful, but hurries off to the left with her grandson and the dreamy-eyed Ravenclaw.

Ginny and I move in a wide arc around the outside of the crowd.  I periodically press the "SEND" bottom, not sure how best to keep Harry's phone ringing.  I catch the sound twice more.  It is enough to put us on the correct vector.

Down the street from the shop in the direction we are heading the Alley makes a shallow dog-leg.  A large building projects out into the street at this point, presenting its side to the crowd in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.  We arrive at the corner of the building, looking around in futile desperation.

The soft ringing comes again.  It is emanating from a shallow flight of steps leading down to a door set in the side of the building below street level.  I move slowly up to the iron railing of the steps, keeping my gaze fixed on the front of the joke shop so as not to alert my quarry that I have found them.  As I approach the rail a set of familiar smells wafts up from the lower steps.

"Put the thing on vibrate!" Hermione's voice hisses.

"I don't know how," Harry answers in an annoyed tone.

"Oh for Heaven's sake, just hit the RECEIVE key twice and hang it up!"

"Why didn't you say so?"  The ringing ceases.

But it is already too late.  I suddenly sprint up to the railing and dart my hand through the vertical bars.  As I suspected, with three people under the cloak my quarry can't move very fast.  My fingers tangle in the fabric of James' cloak and I pull it hard.  With a soft rippling effect, the three missing Gryffindors materialize on the steps.  "Hello, Harry."

The three young people look at me with intense shock.  "Moony...?"  Harry's eyes are as big as two giant green saucers.

"Yes, Moony," I growl, "and ..." I choke on the fierce rage that wells up in my chest.  How dare he defy me like this?  HOW DARE HE?!

"Professor Lupin," Ron speaks, his voice shaking slightly, "we..."

"You will be silent, Mr. Weasley!" My voice is rough and rasps out of my throat painfully.  "And so will you, Miss Granger!" Hermione shuts her mouth with an audible snap.

I swallow, hard.  It does not seem to do anything about the burning anger searing a whole in my stomach lining.  I do not know what would happen if I were to speak.  I grind my jaws in frustration.

"Professor..." Hermione begins.  Doesn't that girl know the meaning of SHUT UP?

Screams burst out from the packed square at my rear.  Acting on reflex, and spurred by the boost to my strength coming from my anger at the insufferable trio, I leap the rail and land lightly at Harry's side, my wand ready.

A half-dozen black spheres, each about the size of a quaffle, are sailing above the crowd.  At the moment I bring my wand up into defensive position, they explode in bursts of sickly green light.

"Down!" I roar, dropping to my knees.  Grasping Harry around the shoulders I force him down at my side.

The waves of radiance roll over us with a swift, oily vibration.  Freezing cold races through my bones, liquid frost pouring through my veins.  I take a burning breath as the futility of this ridiculous battle strikes me.  _We are all going to die_.  Yes, die and for what?  For the stupid dream of a happiness that is impossible, anyway.  For sugar coated lies of love and peace and justice.

I feel my wand fall from shivering fingers.  Laying my head against the stone step, I groan in sheer agony.

And then I hear something beside me - a soft mewling sound, like the whimper of a frightened infant.  My head feels as heavy as all of Hogwarts, but somehow I manage to turn it.  Harry rests prone next to me, his eyes half-closed.  A thin trickle of blood drains from one nostril over his trembling lips.

"Harry?" I rasp.  A feeling of intense panic grips my heart, and the freezing despair recedes.  "Harry?"  I reach out and rub his shoulder.  His muscles are quivering and twitching.

"Professor," Hermione whimpers softly, "De..Dementors!"

Well, there is only one thing to say to this situation.

_BLOODY FUCKING HELL!!_

A/N: In OOTP JKR mentions a Slytherin boy in Harry's COMC class who could see the Thestrals.  Adrian Malone is my take on that character.


	5. Pater Noster, Qui Es In Inferis

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG13

Disclaimer-Main characters and situations owned by J.K. Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS II : PSALM OF THE WOLF

Chapter V: Pater Noster, Qui Es In Inferis

Saturday, 6 July 1996

_10:32 GMT_

The Dementors are sweeping in from every direction, appearing from alleys that were supposed to be secured by teams of Aurors.  _Hell's bells!  How did things go so very wrong?_

Hermione scrambles up from behind me, her face stretched with tension.  In the next instant Ron is climbing over the railing, making for a heap of cloth lying nearby on the sidewalk.  _Ginny!  Damnation, I forgot all about her!_

"Look after Harry!" I bark at Hermione, forcing myself to my feet.

Another flight of black spheres hurtles through the air, originating from one of the side alleys across the street from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.  Suddenly, gold-red light flares and a set of much larger orbs appear around the black projectiles just as they explode.  The sickly green energy washes against the inside of the containment orbs, held harmlessly away from the Alley.  The work of Albus, no doubt

Silver radiance bursts forth from several points in view.  _Patroni_. Unconscious bodies litter the street, but evidently some have managed to keep conscious and oriented. I dash after Ron as a trio of Dementors swoops down on the unconscious Ginny.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _we both shout at the same instant.  My wolf patronus leaps forward and collides with a Dementor, ripping its non-substance to tatters that sweep away on the breeze.  A charging silver knight, bearing a marked resemblance to a chess piece, erupts from Ron's wand and impales another Dementor on its lance.  Jerking to the right, Ron's Patronus tramples the remaining Dementor under the flailing hooves of its horse.

"Good work!" I exclaim as I draw even with him.

"Bloody Hell!" he exclaims, his jaw slack, "I never got a _corporeal_ before!"

"Necessity often helps," I observe quickly, "Impressive results, too.  Quick, get Ginny down the steps!"

Thankfully Ron does not argue.  Gathering his little sister in his arms, he hurries down the short flight of stairs as I walk backwards, covering his retreat.  The scene is absolute chaos.  Small knots of battle have appeared throughout the Alley as still-conscious wizards attempt to protect themselves and their stunned comrades from the Dementors.  Across the small square in front of the joke shop I see a familiar heavyset figure standing close to the steps of Gringotts.  As a squad of four Dementors approaches Neville raises his wand and issues a silver radiance that quickly forms into a gigantic blossom of some kind on a vine.  The flower engulfs one Dementor while the vine wraps itself around another.  Unfortunately the other two swing wide to the right, moving to outflank the botanical Patronus.

Then Luna steps up to Neville's side and the strangest Patronus I've ever seen bursts out of her wand.  It looks like a cross between a gigantic shaggy dog and a rhinoceros, although the thing's horn is oddly bent and twisted.  Twisted or not, however, it works.  The thing runs down the first Dementor, then whirls and impales the remaining menace.

But we have no respite.  Even as another wave of spheres hurtles out over the square, shafts of stab forth from multiple directions.  Several break and refract against the wards of the joke shop, but others seek out wizard defenders with frightening accuracy.  Screams fill the air as dozens of curses take effect on the overwhelmed citizens.

"Goddamn it!" I scream, running back up the steps with Ron at my side.  A half-dozen Death Eaters are rounding the corner to our left, wands raised.  I barely deflect a pair of curses as another one lances between us.  In the corner of my eye I see Ron block an aquamarine bolt, but only partially deflect an arc of crimson radiance.  The curse grazes his thigh and he goes down with bright blood spurting from his leg.  With roars of triumph the Death Eaters charge forward, wands glowing.

"_Glacio!"_ A blue mist snakes from behind us and spreads across the cobblestones at the dark wizards' feet.  It solidifies instantly into a sheet of ice, denying their booted feet purchase on the stone.  Spells shoot harmlessly in random directions as they sprawl painfully in various inelegant and undignified positions.

I waste no time.  With quick, economic motions I stun each of them, then turn to Ron.  Fortunately Hermione is already kneeling at his side, pressing her hands against the oozing wound.  Ron is propped on his elbows, his skin pale and his lips pressed tightly together against the pain.

It was not Hermione's voice casting the spell.  I look to the steps and see Harry leaning heavily on the railing, dark blood still running from one nostril to dribble off his chin.  I tighten my grip on my wand as I am almost overwhelmed with fear and anger and relief.  Behind Harry I see Ginny struggling up the steps, looking pale and pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes.

"Thanks," I manage to croak to Harry.

Not waiting for his reply, I drop to my knees next to Hermione.  "Let me," I say softly.  She does not seem to have heard.  Her trembling fingers on Ron's leg are bright red with blood.  As more gore oozes out around her hands she lets out a soft desperate sound and tightens her grip.  Ron hisses and rolls back his head.

"Hermione," I say firmly, reaching out to rest my hands over hers, "let go."

With another soft sigh she unclenches her fingers and leans back, her face a mask of helpless distress.  I mutter a soft pain-relieving spell over the wound and Ron relaxes gratefully.  Hermione shifts closer and rests her hand on his chest, gently pressing him down so that his head rests in her lap.  Lowering my face to hid a grin I gently spread the cloth of his jeans and examine the wound.  It is wide but not deep enough to sever muscles or major blood vessels.  I utter a basic healing spell and the wound knits together, forming a livid scar.

"There," I announce, "not as good as Madam Pomfrey, but it'll do until somebody more skilled can take a look."

"He isn't so pretty that a little scar will make a difference, Professor."  

I look up in surprise as Bill Weasley kneels on Ron's other side.  Suddenly the sound and lights of the ongoing battle, which I had blocked out in the midst of our local crisis, suddenly flood back in.  Bill is silhouetted in the bright glare of flying spells.  The wards of the joke shop are glowing constantly, and several small battles between wizards and Death Eaters are raging across the square. Neville, Luna, and Mrs. Longbottom are holding their own across the square, and I see that the defenses of Gringott's have come alive, the front of the bank laced with swirls of radiance.  Near the middle of the square Minerva stands back-to-back with none other than Dung Flether, holding off the Death Eaters who are trying to encircle them.  So far it's clear the Death Eaters are taking by far the worst of it.

"Haven't you ever heard that women love scars, Bill?" Ron says in a cocky tone, coming back up one his elbows.

"Hush, you!" Hermione scolds, pressing him down into her lap once again.

"Yeah, no smart remarks from the Junior League!" Bill retorts, pounding his brother playfully on the shoulder.  His hand lingers to stroke softly over Ron's hair, even as his eyes harden in anger.  "Especially from a Junior League that ought not be here in the first place."

"Bill..."

"Later." His tone brooks no arguments.  "Professor, the situation on the ground is coming under control, but we have to stop those spheres.  Professor Dumbledore is weakening, and if any of them break through we'll be right back where we started!"

"Okay, what should we do?"  That comes from Harry, who settles down between me and Hermione.  I feel his warmth against my shoulder.  He wipes the blood off his face with the back of his hand and looks around with an expression of fierce anticipation.

The smell of his blood pierces through my nose and sinuses like a white-hot poker.  _Bleeding.  My cub is bleeding!_

Howling like a pack of dying jackals another wave of dark spreads over the square.  This time two of them avoid Dumbledore's defenses and shower their foul energy over the defenders.  Several citizens collapse, although a see a few Death Eaters fall as well.  A set of smaller, multicolored spheres sails toward the joke shop, flying close to the ground.  They burst in a display like a dozen exploding rainbows.  A rectangular area to the right of the shop entrance glows with a storm of red sparks as a peculiar green shimmer spreads across the surface of the square.

"Damn!" Bill exclaims, "The wards are weakening!"

"What do we _do_?" Harry asks again.

"Professor Lupin and I will apparate into the side alley and try to find the source of those things.  You lot will get back down those stairs and stay there!"  Bill glares at Ron and Harry in turn.

"But..."

"Down the stairs!" I roar.  The smell of his blood is driving me insane.  Turning to Bill, I motion at the entrance of the side alley in question and hold up three fingers.

He gives a sharp gesture of assent and lifts his wand to the ready.  _Three, two, one..._ I exert my will _so._

The familiar tugging seizes me and the world grows hazy.  Then my surroundings jump into stark relief as ropes of force twist around my body and jerk me backwards.  I land with a sharp explosion of pain in my buttocks, a feeling magnified by Bill's weight as he materializes on top of me.

"Crap!"  Bill rolls away, holding his stomach where my knees dug into his abdomen.  "One of those last spells must have been an apparation anchor!"

Indeed.  Probably the green radiance on the cobblestones.  _Damn!_

"Well, we are going to have to get over there somehow.  Hopefully without getting killed in the process."

It won't be easy.  The space in front of the alley mouth is wide and empty.  Anyone lurking deeper in the alley recesses will have a clear view of us framed against the sunlit square.

"We can use my invisibility cloak."  Harry has totally ignored my instructions.  I flex my fingers, driving my nails into the heels of my hands.  He is already rummaging in his backpack.

Scrambling to my feet, I stalk forward, anger welling through my veins.  Bill moves to intercept me, a look of alarm on his face.  "Calmly, Professor."

"Yeah," Ron exclaims, trotting up.  "That's the ticket, Harry!  Let's go."

Bill flushes deep crimson.  His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow, making him look like a giant, furious fox.

"Deep breaths, Bill," I growl softly, "deep breaths."

"Are we going or not?" Harry says, shaking out the cloak.  "We don't have any time to lose!"

I glare at him.  He glares back.  Bill and Ron are locked in a staring contest as well.

"We need to get moving!"  That comes from Hermione, who moves up behind Harry.  Ginny flanks him from the other side.

Bill and I exchange looks and sigh in unison.  "They're right," Bill says grimly, "we don't have time to argue."

"No, we don't.  But they are in _soooo_ much trouble."

"Oh, yeah."  Bill cracks his knuckles menacingly and Ron blanches.

"We won't all fit under the cloak," Ginny observes as she grasps a corner and helps Harry spread the cloth.  

"No need," I answer resignedly.  Fear is growing within me with every second, and I plow ahead in a mad attempt to keep functioning.  "The invisibility effect is bound to the outer surface.  If we spread it in front of us we will be invisible from that direction, but not from behind."

"Oh," Ron says, "that works."

"Just be ready," I say grimly.

I grasp one side of the cloak, Bill seizes the other.  Harry and Ron squeeze into the space between us, with Hermione and Ginny following close.  It is an awkward trip across the square, zigging and zagging amidst the fallen bodies, broken flagstones, and spell remnants.  Harry's ice sheet is one obstacle, but several areas of the squares are still red hot from Incendio spells.  One large patch has been changed into quicksand, and more than a few battles have left the cobblestones littered with feathers, razors, jungle vines, animate concrete hands, serpents, rabbits, chickens, and numerous other detritus that one finds at the site of a wizard duel.

We close slowly on the dark alley mouth, staying low as more spells and curses shoot forth to shatter against the joke shop.  The weakened ward flickers and dies completely just as we reach the alley mouth.

The space leading back between the buildings is dark as the inside of Cornelius Fudge's head, and I thank God fervently for the invisibility cloak.  Without it we would be easy targets.  My eyes adjust rapidly and I make out a good half-dozen figures grouped around a set of open chests on the alley floor.  More surprisingly flashes of light and the sounds of battle are issuing from the further depths of the dark beyond the waiting figures.

"Forward, slowly," I hiss.  We move at a steady, gradual pace.  I want to groan at the sounds my companions are making.  To my lupine hearing they sound like a regiment in full plate armor stomping into battle.  But to a human's ears they are silent enough, especially in the massive din surrounding us.

Some of the figures are chanting unfamiliar spells, and as we approach a series of spheres rises from the chests and hurtle through the air toward the square.  I hope that Albus can smother most of them.  With luck that will be the last volley.

We close efficiently on our quarry, wands at ready.  I consider issuing battle instructions but decide against it.  Nobody in this crew is likely to listen, anyway.  Instead I hold up five spread fingers and begin to lower them one at a time in a silent countdown.  As I drop my last digit, we release the invisibility cloak and attack.

It really isn't much of a fight.  The Death Eaters are taken completely by surprise, and within two minutes all six of them are on the ground stunned, disabled or both.  I run around them, making for the battle in the rear of the alley.  As I approach a pair of dark-clad wizards turns and levels curses at me.  I fall to the ground, stunning one of them from a prone position.  Another stunner races over my head and takes the other Death Eater.  Two more who have not turned to engage us are dispensed with before they can swing about to defend themselves.

I rise slowly to my knees, completely unsurprised to see that it was Harry who followed me into the battle.  He is leaning against a nearby wall, coughing softly.  I bring my wand up at the sound of stirring in the alley, not lowering my wand as Mad Eye Moody and Nymphadora Tonks come around a set of large trash containers.  "What are you two doing back here?" I growl, keeping my wand at ready.

"Fighting," Moody replies, his growl as angry as mine.  "The recognition code is 'peppermints.'"

"In that case," I lower the wand, "let's all take a breather."

"Sounds good to me!" Tonks says in a heartfelt voice.  "Moody and I apparated in here to stop those spheres, but they had a localized anti-apparation ward up."

"Caught us like fly's on sticky paper," Moody explains.  "But we got here in time to save Shacklebolt."

"Kingsley?"

"He's still back here."  Moody leads me to the rear of the dust bins where Kingsley is laying unconscious.  "The Death Eaters were polyjuiced to mimic Aurors."  His voice is bitter and I have no doubt that he is remembering his own experience with Barty Crouch, Jr.  "It's how they managed to get the drop on us."

"Shit," Harry observes wearily.

"That about sums it up," Tonks agrees.

"Well, I guess I had better wake the boy up," Moody growls, stomping toward Shacklebolt.

Then the world glows red as thunderous noise echoes from the sky.  We look up, startled.  Clouds are boiling over the alley, closing off what was a clear blue sky.  The edges of the dark thunderheads gleam red and gold and white.  Balls of multicolored fire like small comets streak downward to batter against a dome of force that has appeared over Diagon Alley.

"THAT CRAZY SON OF A BITCH!" Moody shakes his fist at the sky.  "He'll have the muggles down on us for sure!"

My jaw is sagging open in shock.  I had never in my darkest dreams imagined that Voldemort would resort to bombardment.  If it wasn't for someone's quick thinking we would all be dead, or close to it.

Another volley strikes against the shield.  This time some of the bolts penetrate and large sections of the square vanish in sudden blossoms of flame.  The ground shudders under our feet.

"We've got to stop that!" Harry yells, pushing off from the wall.  "They'll sit up there and burn the Alley to ashes!"

Before I can ask what he suggests for a solution, he barks "Follow me!" and takes off down the alleyway.  Ron pelts after him and I push my aching, bruised body into motion as well.

Harry runs quickly out into the square, dodging the detritus of battle and the ruptured cobblestones.  Ron and I weave along, following his path through the strange obstacle course that was once Diagon Alley.  Rounding a cloud of smoke I see Harry's destination and almost yelp in fear and surprise.

Quality Quidditch Supplies.  It figures.

The door has been left ajar by some fleeing employee, or else has been blown open by a concussion.  Harry darts into the shop, Ron at his heels.  I come through the door just as they are taking broomsticks down from a wall display.  Without even looking at me they dash out again, Harry half-mounted on his broomstick by the time he is through the door.  With a groan of frustration I grab another broom from the wall and follow them.  They are already several feet off the ground by the time I get into push-off position.

I don't talk about it much, but I have never cared for flying.  Not on brooms, anyway.  Sirius' motorcycle was another matter.  I always thought my old friend had the right idea to make sure he had weight and stability beneath him when he was in the air.  But unfortunately the motorcycle is not at hand.  Clinging somewhat grimly to the broomstick, I kick off and rise after the teenagers.

The day is warm and I am flush with exertion, but the motion of the broom brings a chill breeze to bear on my skin.  I urge the broomstick to greater speed, fearful that I will lose Harry and Ron.  Harry, however, has slowed his ascent and is moving to the left toward a thick column of smoke rising from a stretch of shattered flagstones.  As I watch he plunges into the cloud, followed closely by his best friend.

With a soft groan I enter the smoke.  Harry's plan is obvious, and quite good.  He will rise in the cloud, using it to hide himself until he reaches an appropriate altitude.  Wincing against the stinging smoke, I pull myself into a vertical rise.

So thick is the smoke that I barely see Ron as he exits the cloud above me.  Grinding my teeth, trying to ignore the ominous pain in my gums and sense of sharpness in my incisors, I push forward.

Still blinking tears from my irritated eyes, I break free of the smoke into chill air.  The low, dark thunderheads hang just above us, not nearly high enough in the atmosphere to be natural clouds.  The sparking light limning their edges nearly blinds me.  Lifting one hand to shield my eyes and praying I don't fall off the broom, I make out a handful of dark figures outlined by the strange lightning.  Looking about quickly I see that Harry and Ron are moving in a standard vertical pincer often used by Quidditch Chasers.  Ron is swooping towards the figures from below, Harry from above.  Groaning again, I grip the broom with both hands and move after my errant cub.

Luckily, the Death Eaters are too occupied with their bombardment to pay much attention as we approach.  There are five of them.  Three are grouped in a loose circle around the remaining pair, both of whom carry long, javelin like metal staves.  One of the staves gleams with a bluish light and balls of fire lance down from the clouds, exploding as the wards above the Alley come into play.

Blinded and desperate, I urge my broom to greater speed as I follow Harry's arc.  He and Ron attack nearly as one, spells lancing out to strike two of the figures.  One of the guards stiffens and tumbles from his broom, as does one of the main attackers.  I watch in horror as the javelin falls from his fingers and tumbles toward the ground.

"NOOO..."

My scream is cut short as the javelin intersects the wards, flaring and shattering against them.  The sky is filled with light and thunder, the effect of the energies released from the shattered weapon.  I cling to the broom as I am hurled backwards into a tumble.  After what seems like hours, but could be only seconds, the brooms inertial stabilization spells bring me to a halt.  I hold on shakily, vomiting my breakfast.

A scream echoes from somewhere below, barely audible on the icy wind.  I quickly find the source of the sound.  Ron is clinging to his broom with one hand, trying frantically to resume his position atop the stick.  I watch helplessly as his grip loosens and he plunges toward the ground.

Images of a shattered red-haired body flash through my mind as I plunge downwards, knowing that I will be too late.  And then Harry is there, descending in a twisting spiral that is almost freefall.  The scream that comes from me now is a sound of pure horror.  For a moment I think my lungs will burst from the effort of the scream.

Harry pulls out of his dive with a sharp, hair-pin jerk, bearing Ron upwards like a doll dangling below his broom.  Reaching his friend's floating broom, he helps Ron remount as I nearly faint.

I am definitely going to check myself into the heart ward at St. Mungo's when this is over.

Another peal of thunder sounds from above.  I twist my broom around, cursing as I remember the Death Eaters.  Only one is left, but he holds the remaining javelin aloft.  I can imagine the triumphant grin that must be playing over his face behind the mask.  His head is twisted to look directly at the teenagers below as the javelin begins to glitter with blue radiance.

I suppose I scream again.  Either that or my heart skips several beats at once.  In any case, the pain is my chest is searing.  I am moving forward rapidly, although I do not remember giving an order to the broom.  And then the Death Eaters looks around and utters a scream of his own.  My hands close around the javelin, and our bodies collide with a crack that rivals the thunder.

His broom shears about and for a split second I am sure I will be swept off my own stick.  But it slices over my head as his body tumbles back and down.  We are joined by the javelin, both of us hanging on with tightly clenched fingers.  His full weight pulls down on my arms and the agony is worse even than my transformation as my tendons threaten to part.

Luckily the Death Eater releases his grip before my limbs are pulled out by the roots.  Silently, as silent as death itself, he falls.  For him there is no friend to swoop to the rescue.  He drops toward the cruel cobblestones, and I can only imagine that the sound he makes as he strikes is both loud and wet.

I carefully pull the javelin close, wondering how to deactivate it.  But the light is already dissipating.  In a few seconds the javelin is only a metal stave once again.

Harry sweeps up to my left, Ron to my right.  I look over at my cub and tighten my grip on the javelin to keep from slapping him silly.

"I suppose," I manage to bark, "that you found that enjoyable."

Harry glares at me defiantly, but any reply is lost in a sudden spasm of coughing.  I see with a surge of dread that he is bleeding from both nostrils now.

"They sure must not have known anything about Quidditch," Ron exclaims jauntily from my other side.  "That was a flat thinker's formation if there ever was one!"

"Is that so?" I turn to him and level what I intend to be a withering glare in his direction.  I must have overdone it because he recoils with a look of fright.  "Well, you are very lucky, Mr. Weasley, that your superior Quidditch strategy didn't kill us all and level half the Alley!  I suggest you try applying battle strategy next time.  This is not a game!"

He has the Weasley temper all right.  His face flushes as red as his hair.  "And what do you think you're going to do with that thing now that you have it?"

"An excellent question," I allow.  "Here, hold it!"  I shove the javelin into his arms.  His eyes grow wide, but he hangs on obediently as I fish out the mirror.  "Tonks!" I yell.

"I'm here, Remus," the Metamorphmagus says, her face coming into focus, "no need to yell."

"I'm dropping something to you.  Make sure you catch it."

"Will do."  She grins and winks cheerfully, but I break the connection with a swift nod.  

Putting the mirror back I pull my wand and tap it against the javelin.  _"Paludamentum."_  The air around the javelin glows a soft pink.  "Now drop it."

"What?"  Ron flushes a deeper red and stares at me as if I have suddenly sprouted fangs – which, come to think of it, I may well have.

"DROP IT!"

Shrugging as if to say it's on my head he holds the javelin out from his body and lets go.  It tumbles down, end over end.  As it reaches the wards the cloaking charm I placed on it glows pink once again.  Passing harmlessly through the Alley's defenses, it continues its downward trajectory for a moment longer then slows and drifts gently down in what I surmise is the grip of Tonks' levitation spell.

I turn back to Harry.  He stares at me, his eyes slitted in anger.  I simply look back impassively.  "After you."

Looking away with the haughtiness only an offended teenager could muster, he noses his broom downward and descends.  Ron follows, his posture radiating disdain for me.  I bring up the rear, hoping that the heart ward in St. Mungo's has comfortable beds.

Our sad little flock drops low over the square, Harry leading.  He is some twenty feet from the ground when a shout rings out in warning.  "DEMENTORS!"

_Oh I say.  That just isn't fair._

Fair or not, the cloaked figures are once again sweeping in from all sides.  This time, though, Harry is fortified by the adrenalin rush of battle.  Lifting his wand he screams the incantation for the Patronus charm at the top of his voice.

The gleaming stag bounds downward barreling into a trio of dementors at top speed.  Whirling, it tramples two more.  Despite my anger, I feel like cheering with pride.  Ron peels off to the left, diving toward another knot of dementors as his knight patronus bursts from his wand.

Then the stag falters and seems to stumble.  My cheer changes to a choked cry as the stag vanishes in a silver cloud and Harry tumbles from his broom.

He is only six feet from the ground, but his fall is head first.  I plunge straight down grabbing at him with futile desperation.  However he manages to twist, whether in fading effort or by luck, and lands on his back.

I leap from my broom and drop to a crouch beside him.  With a sobbing cry I reach out and feel for his pulse.  It is strong, and I find no more blood or broken bones.  Shaking him frantically, I am rewarded with a sharp gasp.  His eyes flicker open.

"NEVILLE!"  That is Mrs. Longbottom's voice.  I look around and feel my heart stop for about the twentieth time today.  Luna is pulling herself up off the cobblestones, looking much the worse for wear.  Mrs. Longbottom is brandishing half of a broken wand, a ragged scratch showing red on her dignified features.  Several yards away from her a towering Dementor holds a struggling Neville firmly by the throat as it lowers its head toward his face.  As I watch in horror it presses its hood down over the boy's horrified visage.  Neville's limbs spasm, then go slack.

Suddenly a winged figure whips over my head and dives toward the terrible tableaux.  A giant butterfly patronus slices into the Dementor's back, bearing it away in dark wisps.  Neville collapses limply as the butterfly soars around in a circle to return to its maker, who is now standing directly behind me.  I turn to look into two very familiar, very concerned eyes.

"How is he, Remus?" Hermes Reed asks, flicking his wand so that the silvery butterfly hovers over one shoulder.

"I'm fine!" Harry answers for himself.  "See about Neville."

"I'm glad to hear it, young man."  Hermes reaches down to help Harry to his feet.  "I must say that when Miss Weasley gave me that invitation I didn't expect this much excitement!"  He catches my eye and motions toward Neville with his chin.

I scramble over to where Mrs. Longbottom is kneeling over her grandson, wailing.  Luna staggers up, her calm demeanor utterly shattered, her face stricken.  Dung Fletcher approaches from the other side, an expression of deep sorrow sitting oddly on his roguish features.

Neville's eyes are rolled up in his head and a think line of spittle is leaking from one corner of his mouth.  His limbs quiver as if with palsy.  I groan softly.

And then his eyes snap open and focus on me with a fierce intensity totally out of keeping with what I know of him.  To my utter disbelief he opens his lips and speaks clearly and coldly.  _"Pater Noster accedunt.  Animarum domini planum accuramur adorationis."_

"Is that... does it mean...?" Mrs. Longbottom looks at me with almost pitiful hope.  

"I don't know," I say softly.  If the kiss had been successful, Neville should not be able to speak at all.

_"Pater Noster accedunt." _He says again._ " Animarum domini planum accuramur adorationis."_

My head is hurting and my Latin is rusty.  "Our father..." I begin.

"Our father approaches," a soft voice says confidently at my elbow, "His feast of souls is prepared on the Plain of Adoration."

I look up in surprise at the sad smile of Dung Fletcher.  "My grandfather was a Classics teacher at a Muggle university," he explains.

_Well, live and learn._

I climb wearily to my feet and turn to Harry.  Ron is now standing with him, both of them staring white-faced at Neville.

I am about to bellow for all I'm worth when a rippling catches the edge of my vision.  I whip my head around just as two Death Eaters step out from behind invisibility cloaks.

Ron sees them as well and dives in front of Harry just as the first of the Death Eaters lets loose a spell.  The bolt of light catches Ron full in the abdomen, hurling him back into Harry.  They both tumble to the ground.

The second Death Eater steps forward holding a small black sphere that looks like a miniature version of the ones that were recently exploding in the air over the Alley.  He barks something I don't quite catch and it hurtles forward, striking my cub full in the chest as he struggles to rise.  Harry screams then, a sound of pure agony, and falls back, convulsing.

I don't notice bringing my wand up.  But it is up, pointing full at the Death Eaters.  The wand wielding foe twists to face me and shouts something even as I speak my spell.  _"Nebula novacularum!"  _I move my wand in a savage criss-crossing motion.  A whirling cloud of glowing, comma-shaped arcs spreads from my wand, striking the Death Eaters full on.  The arcs cut into them like so many blades, cutting their flesh as easily as a sword slicing through a soft bar of soap.  With an explosion of gore the Death Eaters are torn asunder, chopped into multiple pieces that fly as fleshy projectiles in random directions.

I lower my wand slowly, shock and rage causing my hand to tremble move with wild tremors.  Burning pain radiates through my chest, centered above my heart.

_What the Hell? _I think blearily. _I thought I was only joking._

And then the cobblestones rush up to meet me, and I am lost in darkness.


	6. Observations and Conversations

Author-Dzeytoun         

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-R

Disclaimer-Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N: This chapter sets the stage for the next set of events in the Here Be Monsters saga.  It is a hodgepodge of scenes, but each has its purpose.  For background pertinent to the scene at The Burrow club, see Chapter 13 (Percy Weasley's Chapter), of "Daddy's Favorite."

In the world I have defined, there is some difference in usage between American and British Wizards.  Where British Wizards "apparate," American Wizards "teleport."  American Wizards also speak of "transformation" rather than "transfiguration."

HERE BE MONSTERS II: PSALM OF THE WOLF

Interlude: Observations and Conversations

The Ministry of Magic of the Commonwealth of Australia (located in a dimensionally enlarged office building in the City of Sydney), the evening of Friday, 5 July 1996 (local time):

            The Ministry was not usually fully staffed late on Friday evenings, even on a Friday evening in the middle of winter.  Under normal circumstances, the Minister, a widower named Thaddeus Thackery, would have already portkeyed to Perth for a weekend with his daughter's family and two grandsons of whom he was inordinately fond.  However, alarms had sounded throughout the building just as he was preparing to leave.  For several hours he had been seated at his coral-inlaid desk, receiving phone calls and letters detailing the unfolding situations in London and Darwin.  From time to time his personal assistant, a bunyip who had been with his family since his babyhood, appeared bearing food.  Although it was hard to tell when a bunyip was frowning, the Minister knew very well that the sense of worry the reptilian creature was projecting was altogether deliberate.

            By the time the Head of the Office of Defense and Law Enforcement arrived for the fifth meeting of the evening, the Minister was tired, out of sorts, and suffering from severe heartburn and headache.  "What do you have for me now, Typhon?"  He rose wearily and walked over to a large perch where a Rainbird sat silently, watching the proceedings with storm-gray eyes.  Absently petting the bird's bluish feathers, he waited from for the Head to speak.

            Typhon Sharp sighed and shook his head.  "Nothing good, sir.  Nothing good."

            "Never mind the sir, Typhon," Thackery said heavily, "it's too late.  Just say what you came to say."

            "The battle in London is over, but the reports about bombardment were true."

            "God."

            "Exactly."  Typhon grimaced and went on, "We don't have firm reports on the casualties yet, but early reports are pretty bad."

            "And now the bad news."  The Minister did not turn around, but his voice was soft.

            "We've finally managed to get a clear picture of what's happening in the Northern Territory."

            "And?" The Minister's voice was even softer, if possible.

            "It began when a group of Death Eaters attempted to attack a muggle family named O'Rourke in Darwin.  They came in force and weren't afraid to leave casualties.  Lucky for us they underestimated the power of the Dreaming."

            "Arrogance usually favors the defenders," Thackery said. 

            "And a good thing, too.  At least good for the O'Rourkes.  We had enough warning to get them out before the Death Eaters arrived.  But we didn't expect them to be so tenacious, or to have so many reinforcements."

            "I know, I know."  Thackery rubbed his forehead tiredly.  "How do things stand?"

            "Not good.  They came pouring over from New Guinea before we could erect the coastal interdiction fields.  We're still not sure that we are stopping all of them.  They managed to establish footholds in Darwin and east of Larrimah.  Presently they are pushing hard to break through west of Katherine and toward Tennant Creek, respectively."

            "And?"

            "And we aren't holding well.  The Death Eaters had a lot more planning and preparation than we ever dreamed."

            Thackery rubbed his nose and groaned.  "There go the election prospects."  His flat tone indicated that elections were not very prominent in his mind at the moment.

            "It isn't your fault, Thaddeus.  Cornelius Fudge..."

            "Cornelius Fudge isn't the one who's responsible for Darwin."  Another groan.  "Any communication from Area 51?"

            "Loads."

            "I thought as much.  Route it all in here.  And set up a call to Canberra."

            Typhon nodded soberly.  He had been afraid that was coming.  "Very well."

            Suddenly the Rainbird stirred and let out a plaintive cry, "Bougoodoogahdah! Bougoodoogahdah!"

            "I guess we're in for some rain," Thackery said, almost inaudibly.

            Typhon nodded silently, hoping it wasn't a rain of blood.

Area 51, 0400 local time, 7 July 1996:

            The governing complex of the Wizarding State went by many names, but it was most commonly referred to as The Emerald City.  Whether that was due to the green crystal that was its main structural component, or to the unreal nature of the politics that took place within its elegant chambers, no one saw fit to argue.  What was generally acknowledged was that it was a spectacular sight, hovering as it did in a hard blue sky above the trackless desert.  Of course, not everyone could see the City.  Cloaking charms made it invisible to casual observation by both wizards and non-magicals (the word "Muggle" was currently considered highly incorrect) and subtle manipulation of everything from weather patterns to radar fields to magical auras insured that sky-going craft of all kinds tended to steer well clear.

            The Governor's Residence comprised the upper floors of one particularly tall tower near the eastern edge of the City.  From his windows, at least during the day, James R. Torracco had a miles-long view over the desert floor.  At night the stars were like a glittering blanket wrapped over the slumbering complex.

            But no one was asleep in the tower tonight.  Torracco stood at one of his enormous picture windows which wrapped up overhead to form a skylight.  He craned his long neck to pick out constellations.  Astronomy had long been one of his favorite studies.  With a soft sigh, he finally turned to look at the inhabitants of his office, a spacious chamber with vaulted ceilings, soaring columns, and multi-level parquet floors, all of green, gold, and gray marble.  The Governor did not fit the space.  He was a short man with silvery hair and the sharp facial bones of his Sicilian heritage.  His elegant robes lay draped casually over a nearby chair, and he stood now in tailored gray slacks and a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows.  He twirled his mahogany wand absently in his long, thin fingers.

            "Well, we're in the poop now," he announced, sitting in a leather padded chair and crossing his legs at the knee.

            "Please," one of his visitors said languidly, "such language from the Governor!  We depend on you to set an example, sir!"

            Torracco grinned at the elderly, copper-skinned man sitting in a throne-like, rather tasteless chair near one of the room's large fireplaces.  "A lesson in manners from Mr. Justice Begay?  You can take me now, God.  I've heard everything!"

            Everyone in the room got a laugh out of that.  Jeff Begay was renowned throughout the Wizarding World for his colorful expressions.  All who knew the ill-tempered Navajo personally realized that his foul language was a component of a deliberately constructed social personality.  Like most such constructs, Begay's act tended to slip in times of true stress.  It was a measure of the gravity of the current situation that Begay had gone three entire hours without cursing.

            "You do intend to help them, don't you?" Begay suddenly asked, softly.

            Torracco sighed heavily.  "I would love to, Jeff, you know that.  But I'm afraid that it's in the Legislature's court right now.  I'll speak with Senator Ash before he leaves.  But I'm afraid that the crisis in Australia won't make it any easier."

            "The two are one and the same," Begay observed sternly.

            "You know that, and I know that," Torracco said patiently, "and the Legislature knows it, too.  But they aren't ready to admit it yet."  He snorted.  "I guess I can understand.  There's going to be a banquet of crow soon enough."

            "It may not be soon enough to do any good," one of his other guests said.

            "I know, Jane, I know."  Torracco smiled at Jane Leung, the formidable Commander of the Grays, the Wizarding State's military force.  Despite the early hour, Commander Leung was impeccably attired in gorgeous silk robes of traditional Chinese design, replete with scarlet and gold dragons writhing on the sleeves and skirts. 

            "Let's move on to the Australian Crisis," Torracco said.  "Are we sure of our knowledge there?"

            "We aren't sure of anything," Leung observed calmly.  "But it does seem that the O'Rourke family immigrated to Australia from County Cavan.  If our analysis is correct..."

            "We're in even _deeper_ poop," Torracco finished for her.  "Christ, we have one crazy asshole trying to wake up ancient gods, now Tom Riddle has to get religion!"  Up until tonight the main problem facing the Wizarding State in terms of security was Ahuatec, a crazed dark wizard of the Yucatan determined to open a dimensional portal and summon the old Mayan gods.  Intelligence sources indicated that something similar was afoot in Ireland.

            "He may well believe that some of the information he needs is in Australia, yes."  Leung folded her hands smoothly.  "We can't afford not to take action."

            "Luckily we don't have to wait," Torracco answered.  "We have an aid and defense treaty with the Australians, and that means I can act without Legislative approval.  What can we get there, and how fast?"

            "We have two full legions ready to deploy at once," Leung announced crisply.  "The VII Legion Arcanum and the III Legion Mysterion can begin moving as soon as you give the word."

            "And what about Star Chariots?"

            "Well, we have _Blackstone..."_

"_Oz _class!" Torracco interjected forcefully.

            "_Oz _class?" Leung blinked in surprise.  "Well, other than _Oz _herself, we can send _Mombi_ and _Ozma_.  There is also _Dorothy Gale_, of course, but that is detailed to Senator Ash."

            "Very well.  Leave _Dorothy Gale _at Aurelius' disposal.  Give the word for the deployment of legions to Australia to begin.  And dispatch _Ozma _and _Mombi_.  Jeff," he turned to the Justice, "contact your friends in Britain.  Tell them what the situation is, unofficially, and ask what we can do, unofficially, until such time as we get the Legislature in line.  Tell them it shouldn't be long."

            "Very well.  I'll do so at once."  Begay rose and, making his apologies, teleported away.

            Torracco remained silent for a moment, then turned to the final occupant of the room.  "Mr. Whitlock, what is the attitude of Sixteen Hundred?"

            Richard Whitlock, liaison from the White House to Area 51, cocked his head and regarded the Governor squarely.  Although non-magical, Whitlock had dealt with wizards long enough to have no special fear of them.  With his thick white hair, blunt features, and hazel eyes he resembled an aging lion, which also matched his personality.  "Why would you think we have any particular interest in this mess, Governor?"

            "It directly threatens all of us."

            "We are always directly threatened," Whitlock answered.  "Whether by terrorists or environmental change or nuclear war or economic collapse or some other goddamn thing, we are all always on the knife edge of doom.  Or don't you read the papers?  Anyway, this particular threat is supposed to be in your bailiwick."

            "I'm not saying it isn't," Torracco answered testily, "but Voldemort is a special case!"

            "Is he?  How many has he killed?"

            Torracco looked over at Jane Leung.  "About a dozen in the past year," she said quickly.  "Give or take a couple."

            "Not impressive," Whitlock said calmly.  "That wouldn't even qualify him for the front ranks of the New Jersey mob."

            "Over two hundred all told," Leung continued, "perhaps close to three.  That's taking in his entire career."

            "Which spans about fifty years, you say."  Whitlock shook his head.  "Once again, not impressive.  Any mediocre terrorist could do better over that length of time.  Or worse, depending on how you look at it."

            "Forgive us if our wars aren't up to your scale," Torracco observed acidly.  "We find them rather important."

            "I'm sure you do.  And I don't blame you.  But the White House sees no reason for great concern at the moment."

            "Has Sixteen Hundred considered the RUMPELSTILSKIN Option?"

            "I'm not at liberty to make official comment on that."

            Torracco closed his eyes and visibly bit back a retort.  Opening them again, he met the liaison's gaze.  "Look, Richard, we are in the middle of a bad crisis here.  Can you speak off the record."

            "All of our conversations are off the record, Governor, considering the officially you don't even exist."

            "You know what I mean."

            Suddenly Whitlock looked much older, and very weary.  "OK, Jim.  I owe you that much."  He looked at the floor for a moment, then raised his head and continued.  "As I said, the White House isn't impressed.  The consensus in Washington is that you and the British and the Australians and frankly the whole damn bunch of wizards and witches need to learn that the world doesn't revolve around you.  As far as RUMPELSTILSKIN, I have spoken personally with the President.  He has said that under no condition will he agree to giving any British combatants shelter in the country."

            Torracco closed his eyes again.  "We are talking about a fifteen-year-old boy."

            "I told him that.  He expressed his sympathy but is adamant.  It is none of our concern."

            "Even if the boy is the key to this whole mess?"

            "I told him that, too.  Once again, I'm afraid the answer is that the world does not revolve around you or your problems."  Whitlock shifted uncomfortably.  "Unfortunately, he was not in the best frame of mind.  It seems your British cousins inserted a spy into a very sensitive area at Bolling Air Force Base.  He was apprehended trying to break into some Liaison files."

            Torracco cursed with an eloquence that would have done Jeff Begay proud.  He also did not miss that Whitlock had said "your" rather than "our" British cousins.  "What is going to happen to him?  Is it a him?"

            "Yes, it is.  I don't know, but I don't have a good feeling, Jeff.  A lot of people think an extreme example is in order."  Whitlock shifted and looked deeply unhappy.  "He isn't much more than a boy, really.  A Gryffindor, judging by the necktie they found on him."

            "Surely he would have the benefit of the law?" Jane asked quietly.

            "No, I'm sorry he doesn't."  Whitlock shook his shaggy head.  "You have to remember that, unlike most of your people, British wizards don't maintain non-magical identities.  Officially, and according to all legal and governmental records, the boy doesn't exist."

            "A pureblood?" Torracco asked.

            "Evidently.  Anyway, the Constitution doesn't apply to people who don't exist, and neither do any laws."

            Torracco put his head on his hand and thought.  He thought very hard.  "Would a personal appeal from me make a difference?"

            "It might, Jim.  I just don't know."

            "Would you set it up?"

            "Yes.  I'm very sorry, Jim."

            "I think we all are, Richard.  I think we all are."

From _The Sunday Times_, 8 July, 1996:

            Citizens of Central London were treated yesterday to a spectacular display of light in the lower atmosphere above the city.  Observers described the scene as "like the Northern Lights, only brighter and quickly changing."  Many Saturday shoppers also reported hearing loud sounds like thunder very close to the ground.  The display began in mid-morning and persisted for approximately thirty minutes before ceasing as abruptly as it had begun.

            Inquiries to government sources were at first met with no comment, but scientists from the University of London theorized that an unlikely convergence of precise temperature, humidity, and pressure conditions resulted in a "pocket inversion," essentially a miniature thunderstorm minus the actual rain.

            Late in the day the Weather Section of the Royal Air Force confirmed this explanation.  Captain Richard Emory of the Section told reporters in a rare departure from the usually routine weather briefings that, "Londoners should feel privileged.  Although such sudden inversions have been known to occur in the Middle East, sometimes resulting in snow and freezing rain the middle of the desert, this is the first time in almost a century that such a phenomenon has been reported over the British Isles."  When reminded of the strange weather conditions reported in 1980 and 1981, Captain Emory replied that, "It is true that a twenty month period in the early 1980s saw many unusual electrical disturbances in the atmosphere of the Midlands.  However, this was conclusively shown to be the result of natural fluctuation in aerial ions.  The kind of pressure abnormalities of which we are speaking were not involved."

            No injuries were reported as a result of Saturday morning's display.  Property damage was limited to severe cracking of a plate glass window fronting Aberworth and Sons' Fine Clothiers on Pemberly Lane.

From _The __Washington__ Post_ _Sunday Edition_, July 8, 1996:

            It may be that "birds of a feather flock together," but this was certainly not the case over the Mall yesterday as large numbers birds from diverse species put on an aerial show for tourists and residents of the District.  In a phone interview with staffers of the _Washington Post_, Dr. Jane Sewalsky of the Museum of Natural History at the Smithsonian Institution said that "localized migrations of birds are common, but we rarely see so many different varieties together, many of which are not native to the mid-Atlantic area.  The presence of many different kinds of owl was particularly unusual, especially as this migration took place in the daytime.  We also saw a large number of Mid-Western and Southern crows, and even quite a few Boat Tailed Grackels from East Texas.  There are also confirmed reports of two Golden Eagles, and an unconfirmed report of a Bald Eagle – on the White House lawn, appropriately enough!"

            In fact many of the birds found their way to the White House, where groundskeepers could be seen tolerantly escorting them to the fence, aided by Secret Service personnel.  Administration spokespeople joked that this was part of a new cost-cutting initiative aimed at reducing White House communications expenses.

            Spokesmen for the Department of Defense, asked about a similar flock of birds in the vicinity of the Pentagon, took the same line.  "Troops have used Pigeons for centuries," Assistant Defense Department Press Secretary Philip McTavish said, "maybe it is time to bring back the practice."  Asked what obstacles might stand in the way of this "new program," Mr. McTavish joked that, "I'm told we are having trouble finding pooper scoopers to fit specifications."

From _The New York Times Arts Supplement_, the week of July 8, 1996

Submitted by John Edward Clayton:

            The Metropolitan Museum of Art is capitalizing on recent strange migrations of birds in the District of Columbia to do some impromptu advertising for their new show featuring the "Avian Portraits" of little-known early American portrait artist Caleb Nott.  Nott painted many of the Founding Fathers, and his portraits hang in the White House and the Smithsonian, as well as the Virginia State Capitol and Biltmore Mansion in North Carolina.  Nott's hallmark was the inclusion of birds in his portraits.  His most famous painting is _The Warning_, showing George Washington holding a letter purportedly detailing the treason of Benedict Arnold.  A large barn owl is sitting on a tree branch above Washington's head.  Another well-known work is _News from Afar_, depicting Benjamin Franklin at his desk in Paris with a sea gull sitting on the sill of an open window.  Nott was known for imparting incredible lifelike detail to his paintings, as well as idiosyncratic signature touches, most famously including a small twist of green and silver ribbon around the necks of the birds in his portraits.

            Nott is also mildly famous among American art historians for the mystery surrounding his life.  He told his contemporaries of the Revolutionary Generation that he had left England because of family controversy over his marriage.  John Adams, one of his portrait subjects, recorded in his diary that Nott mentioned having been wed in Trinity Church of Glasgow.  The church records from the eighteenth century are intact, and do indeed record the marriage of one Caleb Salazar Nott to Alice Caroline Bothman, evidently the daughter of the clergyman performing the ceremony.  However, the date of wedding is listed as June 21, 1708.  Unfortunately for historians, Adams mentions the portrait painting Caleb Nott as being at most fifty in 1784.  Mr. Raymond Denby, owner of the largest collection of Nott's work in private hands and a direct descendant of the painter through Nott's granddaughter, observes that "Although Caleb Nott told John Adams he was a widower, a widower of one hundred and thirty is a bit hard to imagine."

            Another mystery surrounding Caleb Nott concerns the site of his grave.  The resting place of Nott and his wife was long believed to be a small private cemetery in Northern Virginia owned by the Denby family.  The cemetery contains a pair of graves with headstones for a Caleb Nott and his "Beloved Wife," Alice.  Neither stone bears dates, but Caleb's tombstone exhibits the Latin inscription, "_Hic cubat gratiosum serpentum," _which translates with delicious mystery as "Here lies the beloved serpent."  An infant's grave next to the adults' has a headstone reading "George Bothman Nott, _Serpentigeniam."  _In this case the Latin means "Born of the serpent."  Once again, however, the historian is confounded by records.  In 1973 records surfaced showing that Caleb Nott's tombstone was commissioned in 1872.  The records clearly indicate that the tombstone was for a new grave.  As Mr. Denby observes, "If this Caleb is indeed the portrait painter, he would have been around one hundred – twenty even if John Adams was off by ten years guessing his age.  And if we add that to the date of the marriage of Caleb and Alice Nott is Glasgow, then he would have been over two hundred at the time of his death."

            How then to address this mystery?  Raymond Denby admits there is no really satisfactory answer.  "We can only assume there were multiple Caleb Notts, and that two of them married women named Alice."  And what about the strange inscriptions on the Virginia tombstones?  "People at that time loved to make literary illusions on headstones," Denby observes, "but I'm afraid we've lost the knowledge of what they were trying to say.  Fortunately, Caleb left his paintings to speak for him."

            Fortunately indeed.  The exhibition opens.....

Conversation between John Clayton and Raymond Denby at the latter's home in Northern Virginia, July 8, 1996:

            "Thanks for letting me do this piece on Caleb, Ray," John Clayton said, putting away his tape recorder and stifling a sneeze.

            "Anything for an old college buddy," Ray Denby chuckled.  "Besides, maybe it'll help stir up interest in the paintings."

            "I hope so.  But you didn't have to give up a Sunday afternoon!" Clayton sneezed softly.

            "Don't mention it.  Think of it as payback for the time you helped me get out of that jam in the Tri-Delt house."

            "The _what_, Dad?"  The speaker, a lanky, dark-haired version of Ray Denby, slouched into his father's study with hands firmly in the pockets of his jeans.  He looked to be about thirteen.

            "Never you mind.  John, I think you know my son, Peter?"

            "Of course!  Last time I saw you, young man, you were still waving bye-bye from your play pen!" 

            The teenager blushed and both men laughed heartily.  They were still chuckling when an elderly woman in an expensive-looking brown dress came into the room.  "Aunt Rose!"  Ray motioned the woman forward.  "You remember John Clayton, my friend from Cornell?"

            "Of course!"  The woman came forward smiling.  "Ray said you would be coming to talk about Caleb!  Our family's only claim to fame!  I hope you'll stay for supper?"

            "I'm afraid not," John said, "I've got to catch a plane back to New York."  He sneezed.

            "I'll walk you out," Ray said.

            "Is that a summertime cold?" Rose asked.  "Those are the worst.  Give him some of my tea, Ray!"

            "Sure, Aunt Rose!" 

Denby escorted his old friend downstairs, taking a small detour into the kitchen and returning a moment later with a small thermos.  They continued on to the driveway, where Clayton's rental car waited.  "Here you go," Ray said, handing Clayton the thermos.  "Drink this on the way to the airport.  I guarantee you'll be right as rain by the time you touch down in New York!"

"I will.  I remember Rose's tea!"  John frowned.  "I don't mean to pry, Ray, but – how old is she, anyway?  She had white hair when we were in college!"

"I know what you mean!" Ray winked broadly.  "Family secret.  I mean, if Caleb could live to be two hundred, why not Aunt Rose?"

"True!"  With one last chuckle, John bade his friend goodbye and drove away.

Ray watched the car disappear, smiling happily.  His son came up to stand beside him.

"Tri-Delts, Dad?" Peter asked, his eyebrows raised.

"I'll tell you after your mother and Aunt Rose go to bed," Ray replied, draping his arm over his son's skinny shoulders.  "Let's go have a pumpkin juice!"

"Sure!  And will you give me some pointers on the broom, later?  I want to be ready for Quodpot tryouts!"

Ray hid a frown.  He was not at all comfortable with his slightly built son engaging in that rough and exceptionally violent sport  "Are you sure you wouldn't rather try out for the Quidditch team?"

"Quidditch is for pansies," Peter replied mildly.  "By the way, have you heard about London?"

"Yes, I have," Ray replied firmly.  "And you don't let things like that bother you!  Or your brother!"

"DAD!" Peter cried in outrage.

"You know how nervous Sam is," Ray said.  "After that ghoul..."

"Dad it was a _joke_," Peter protested.  "We never thought Sam would wander in!"

"I know," Ray said quietly.  "Go on and get your pumpkin juice.  And call your brother in for some, too.  I'll fly with both of you later."

The teenager scampered away obediently.  His father followed him slowly.  Rose met him in the front hallway, her face disfigured by a frown.

"Is it true, Ray?" Rose asked.  "Is he really back?"

"You know it is, Aunt Rose," Ray answered firmly.

"And what about the sympathizers?" She was calm, but her eyes were troubled.

"What sympathizers?  We rounded up what few spies there were years ago."

"It's not like in Europe, I know, but, well..."

"I understand.  There isn't anything to worry about, I promise!  Now why don't you go get Marie and we'll all have a pumpkin juice."

"That's a good idea." Rose smiled.  "I think Marie wants you to talk with Peter about Potions.  He didn't get a very good grade."

"All Potions teachers are ass holes," Ray said, "it's required for a union card, I think."

"RAY!"

"Well, it's true.  Old man Cassius was suckled on a lemon and weaned on a lime.  Besides," he spoke sternly, "I won't have the kids bothered with school work in the summer.  Everybody deserves a vacation."

Still tutting, Rose hurried off to find Ray's wife.  Denby watched her go fondly, then turned to join his progeny in the kitchen.  He reminded himself to make sure Caleb and Alice's graves were in shape.  John had said he would be sending a photographer over to shoot some pictures for his story.

And he reminded himself that after everyone was asleep, it would be a good idea to check the wards on the house.

RAF Lakenheath, 7 July, 1996

            The message arrived in three layers of code.  The USAF Intelligence officer who ran it through the regular process stopped as soon as the tell-tale symbol for Room 232 appeared.  Walking down the hall of one of the buildings the USAF used on the British air field, he dropped the message off with the balding, taciturn man who spent his days doing God knew what in the tiny, yellow-painted room.

            As soon as the door closed, the man, a civilian, quickly finished the translation.  It read, "_The Shire is breached."_

            Most people would have found the message at least somewhat amusing.  The man was not most people.  In a business not known for its humor, he was somewhat legendary for his stern demeanor.

            Picking up the secure line on his desk, he quickly dialed the appropriate number.  When the opposite end picked up, he spoke quickly and succinctly.  "This is Minas Morgul.  Send out the Nine."

            Hanging up the phone, he allowed himself a brief moment of dour speculation on who's death sentence he had just signed.  But he did not think on it long.  It wasn't good for his digestion.

_The Burrow_ (a seedy club in London approximately a kilometer from the Ministry of Magic), 7 July, 1996

            The man known as Mr. Jones walked into the club and made straight for the back offices.  It was practically deserted, even though it was Saturday.  The late crowd had not yet begun to arrive, and The Burrow did not cater to an early crowd.  Reaching the non-descript door near the rear of the building, he wrapped politely but entered without waiting for an answer.

            The club's current operator, and titulary owner, sat behind a battered desk.  "Mr. Jones," he said as the dumpy little man entered.

            "Mr. Asmodeus," Jones answered.

            The man called Asmodeus smiled and waved his visitor to a seat.  Like Jones, he was non-descript, albeit in a different way.  With an open shirt, braided ponytail, and receding, graying hair, he looked like an aging flower child. 

            "How is the information business?"  Jones inquired.

            "Pretty good," Asmodeus answered. 

            "And Mr. Weasleton?"  Jones' lip twisted in contempt.

            "A gusher of info.  Wizards don't handle their booze and drugs very well."  The man snorted.  "Or their sex, either, in his case.  Strange, considering the size of his family you'd think that wouldn't have such an effect."

            "Not everything's genetic, Mr. Asmodeus," Jones observed calmly.  "Besides, there's one in every crowd.  Or every family, as the case may be."

            "Thank God for that!" Asmodeus observed fervently.  After all, that was the cornerstone of his trade.  His code name was chosen deliberately.  Asmodeus, Lord of Corruption, Prince of Lechery.  His specialty lay in finding the sensual weaknesses of a "client," and using said weaknesses to lure the hapless prey into a web of compromise, intrigue, blackmail, and treachery.  He liked to brag that given time he could break the asceticism of the Dalai Lama.  His current assignment was rather boring.  Wizards were pathetically easy to ensnare.  They were so dependent on magic to guide them that they almost always failed to properly appreciate the dangers of non-magical people and situations.  Percy Weasley, for instance, had fallen into a trap that most "Muggles" would have spotted from halfway across the city.

            "Well, as long as he is producing, all is well," Jones said.  "But be prepared to up the pressure.  After recent events we will need more, much more."

            "He's ready," Asmodeus said calmly.  "The poor sap is so torn up and confused that we could get him to throttle his own mother, with a little coaching."

            "No need for that," Jones replied, smiling.  "Just be ready to do what's necessary."

            "We want to go whole hog?"

            "Not yet.  But be prepared to break young Mr. Weasley with minimal time to work.  I hope it won't come to that, but you never know."

            "I hope it doesn't, too.  It always upsets me, when you have to be sloppy."

            Jones nodded his understanding.  He and Asmodeus were kindred spirits, professionals and artists.  Both of them deeply regretted having to settle for less than their elegant best.

            "Are you hunting today?" Asmodeus asked.

            "Not right now.  But I expect I will be called on shortly."

            "Well, good luck, man!"  Asmodeus leaned over and shook his guest's hand. 

            Jones departed the way he had come.  Reaching the street, he blended effortlessly into the moving crowd, wondering if he would indeed get a call soon.  He certainly hoped so.  He did not want to get rusty.  He was a specialty hunter, and his skills needed constant honing.

            But he had to be patient.  His was a very well-defined niche.  After all, it was not every day that somebody needed a man who hunted wizards.


End file.
